


'I'll Tell You A Story'

by adventurer17



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fey aspects, Veil of Time, time-travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:28:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 38,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24291319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adventurer17/pseuds/adventurer17
Summary: 'Tell me,' he said over the snapping flames, the gentle glow casting his face partially in shadow, while pronouncing his eyes, 'do you miss it?"Picking at her food, her journal securely held in her lap, she fiddled with the glued binding. 'My home, you mean, or my time?' 'Are they not the same' he posed, lifting the corner of his mouth when she met his gaze. She looked away, unable to answer.
Relationships: Ragnar Lothbrok/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 112





	1. Musn't Linger at Cross-Roads

_What were the words of an old wives tale?  
Simmering magic behind an ancient veil.  
A land so steeped in legend and myth,  
_ _It is little wonder when things go amiss._

* * *

The low sky, laden with swollen clouds, had effectively obscured the sun and any chance of continuing with a picnic four young women were desperately clinging to; four Americans on holiday in Scotland, underestimating the _dreach_ weather, and in various stages of bowing down to the superior forces of Mother Nature. The last to submit had her face turned to the sky, squinting up at the looming clouds, an expectant quirk to her lips as she waited for that first drop to splash somewhere on her skin.

"Molly! Stop daydreaming and help pack this up. I don't want the wicker to get wet!"

Snapping her eyes back to her friends, she lurched to her feet and wordlessly began folding the blanket her bum had been holding hostage. A smile lingered hiding behind her curtain of hair, giving away her amusement at their frantic behavior. This was the quartets fifth day in the country and the first afternoon that had promised improved weather for their little outing. Molly couldn't say she was surprised by the speedy return of rain clouds, though, was the only one willing to meet them. Outnumbered in less than a second, she gave into their squawking, though, had her thoughts elsewhere as they packed the car up just as the first drizzle was unleashed.

"You go on ahead," Molly told her friends, pulling out her umbrella and opening it with a flourish. Their plans consisted of heading back to the B&B they were staying at, but Molly was just a bit sick with cabin fever and had one or two things she wanted to poke around before returning.

"What? It's raining. Where are you _going_?" Ellie demanded, closing the trunk and hurrying to the passenger side.

"I'm not ready to come back yet. Need to stretch my legs," Molly explained, keeping it brief.

"But it's raining," Cathy insisted from behind the wheel, reiterating Ellie's point.

"I have my umbrella, besides it's a ten minute walk to the B&B. I won't be long," she assured with a smile and a nod.

"Oh, let's just leave her. You know we won't talk her out of it," Gracie hollered from the back, eager to be off the roads. Out of the four, she was the biggest worrywart and would likely as not be the one biting her nails until Molly walked through the doors to their rooms. As it was, she could only concern herself with one thing at a time, and presently the rain was getting heavier, plunking off the roof of the car.

Cathy and Ellie gave Molly a final, appraising look, before having to agree with Gracie.

"Just don't go off the paths and – oh, is your phone charged? Do you have a signal?"

"Yes and yes," Molly answered without checking. "I will stay on the paths, look both ways before crossing, and I'll make sure not to talk to any strangers. Happy?"

Ellie grumbled. "Fine, but if you're not back within the hour Scotland's going to have three stereotypical Americans on their hands who won't shut up until they find their friend. So for the sake of our motherland's reputation – don't daydream!"

Laughing, Molly shooed away their concerns, waving fondly until their little rented car dipped into a valley, vanishing from sight.

 _Free to explore_ , Molly thought giddily.

At a much slower pace than the automobile she sloshed her way down the road making sure to hit every puddle until the denim of her jeans were beyond damp and murky water could be felt sliding down the inside of her wellies. She twirled her umbrella over her shoulder, humming 'Singin' in the Rain' to herself as the flat land around her held the tempting invitation to drop her umbrella and just run until she couldn't – to throw caution to the wind and indulge even further into her reckless nature.

She wanted to see everything that could possibly be seen on this trip, to soak up as much as the culture and folk lore as possible. In a week's time they'd be journeying even further north to the Highlands, something she was particularly excited about. Snapshots she'd seen of the rugged land spoke directly to her romantic imagination and the raw mountains with hints of mossy green, she felt sure, would easily fulfill her desire for adventure. She gave a rueful chuckle at her friends' expense as she thought of the near future and how many times she planned on giving them the slip. Her endurance for new experiences far outpaced theirs.

For now, they were staying in a seaside chalet in Dunbar, overlooking a glorious stretch of beach with a walk that was part of John Muir Park. It was to this strip of sand she was headed. The rain was tolerable; no threat of lightening as of yet, and the desire to stand on the beach and be eye-level with the stormy waves, the sea-breeze filling her lungs, sounded like the perfect cure for cabin fever.

The beach was deserted, forcing Molly to momentarily doubt the sanity of her notions, but then the drizzle sputtered into a few week drops, and she felt it safe enough to continue. The tide was low, stretching back so that the glistening sand seemed to extend for miles before meeting the white foam. Slipping out of her wellies, Molly toed the sand, imprinting her feet in the cooling ground. She stood in the space between high and low tide, looking out towards the horizon in easy meditation, the natural rhythm lulling her into a deep serenity so that time was forgotten. Her mind turned to the legends of natural in-between points: cross-roads; the gloaming hours of dawn and twilight, not quite day nor yet night; the stretch of sand between high and low tide.

Eventually, the drizzle resumed, though turned stronger this time, and Molly was forced out of her reverie. Unconsciously, she had allowed her umbrella to droop to the side, and now straightened it above her head once more. Checking her phone she read the time as being half past two, and if she were to follow her friend's warning about time she had only eight minutes to return before Scotland would be plagued with a headache.

Chuckling to herself Molly cast a final glance at the sea before turning her back towards it.

Missed by her roving gaze, however, was a speck on the horizon. Smaller than a dot, yet moving swiftly towards the shore, its wooden body soon loomed clear as the men waiting within watched the ever approaching beach with war-lust in their eyes. The metal of their weapons were dull under the foreboding sky, yet they received the fall of the rain with a low pattering that thrummed pervasively on the hull of the longboat. Out of the scores of men, only one stood with the outward appearance of patience. His glance held a spark of wisdom missed by the others as he prepared himself to once again meet the somewhat familiar land of the Christians.

* * *

It had been quick. The tolling bells had eerily fallen silent all too quickly when the monks ringing them had been relieved of their heads. The monastery sacked, the town pillaged; young men who were no more than farmers or apprentices bravely stood their ground against the invading forces only to be cut down with a ferocity and cruelty undeserved. The passionate actions of the berserkers were dispassionate in their execution. There was no thought, no mercy, only the blood-lust that they entreated to take hold of their mind when rampaging. The women faced depredations hitherto unknown to them as they no longer had their men folk to protect them. Their screams related the horrors of the North-Men far better than any round church bell could.

Undisturbed by this red backdrop, Ragnar Lothbrok walked slowly down what had only recently been an aisle of the church. The wooden benches now overturned, cut, chipped, and strewn alongside the bodies that had fallen atop them. The sight did nothing to upset the marauder, though unlike the rest, it did not make him revel either.

His steps were firm, but questing. He had no predestined location that he sought, only to gather all that he could to learn more of this new world. Past a ruined door that led to an ante-chamber, he found more bodies slumped over slanted desks; their life's blood mingling with the colorful ink on the illuminated pages.

Recognizing these monks as being similar to Athelstan, Ragnar flicked a curious glance towards the ruined pages, his gaze running over the unintelligible scripts. In terms of value, these sheets were worthless to him, even less to Earl Haraldson. He may not understand the lines that marked out a language, but he knew that they were filled with nothing but the Christian G-d. Still, there was an undeniable twitch in his hand that impulsively snatched at the most unspoiled parchment.

The yearning for knowledge, no matter its source, was a more powerful inducement than the finest of kings' hoards.

**. . .**

It was not long before the treasures; the gold crosses and platters, the silver goblets and candle-holders were accounted for and brought excitedly to the proud serpent's head rising from the water. The lapping waves caressed the hull, only to turn to erratic splashing when the tread of the Northmen disturbed the shallow depths as they distributed their goods throughout the boat. The rain had ceased early on in their raid. Their talk was disconnected from the carnage they'd delivered to the town; happy and boasting of the fine things they would get for themselves and their women once returned. The honor that would come to them as their riches increased; as they had no doubt it would, seeing how bountiful this land to the west was proving to be.

Ragnar stood back from this talk, both physically and figuratively. His ambitions were perhaps more far-reaching than those on the beach, yet his wits were sharper. Earl Haraldson was much on his mind of late. Ragnar had drawn the board and now the moves must be played by himself and those involved – whatever the consequences.

The land he stood on was rich, richer than mere jewels and trinkets - it was a land of wealth. Tillable soil, hardy animals, weather not so unforgiving as the climes of his homeland. Yes, he thought, his narrowed gaze taking in the sprawling promise, the flash of his eyes striking against the brown of his skin. Yes, there are riches to be had here.

Movement caught his notice breaking the spell he was weaving for himself. There was a flash of red between the green foliage of the trees that grew on the far reaches of the beach.

Cautiously stepping forward Ragnar paid a quick glance over his shoulder to the men by the boat. He was unobserved by them. Looking back to the trees he tilted his head, his eyes roving for a sign of a threat while he unobtrusively tightened his grip on his ax.

Flicking his gaze back and forth, Ragnar entered the first line of trees. He could hear the person's tread now - quick and careless. At first they seemed to be marching away from him, however, a few seconds later had them returning in an indirect route. They changed course for a third time, and Ragnar found himself intrigued.

On silent feet he followed the noise, his grip no longer so intense on the handle of his ax. Low murmuring soon joined the footfalls, then, what sounded like an exceedingly frustrated grunt. There was a feminine lilt to the aggravated noise, and Ragnar quickened his steps until he saw a woman crashing through the trees away from him, only to change course as if she didn't know which direction was hers.

Sidling up to a large trunk he watched her unseen.

Her raiment piqued his interest, as did the implement she was currently wringing in her hands. The curved end was intriguing, though, with a raking gaze, Ragnar determined its dullness, therefore it's uselessness as a weapon. The satchel at her side was more promising of finding something of interest. His head was tilted curiously, his breathing quiet as he observed the woman's ill contained hysterics.

She did not belong to the town they'd just sacked, he was sure of it, though he had nothing to base it on other than an educated summation.

Cocking an ear, he heard her distressed murmurs catching on barley contained sobs. There was a foreign lilt to her undertones, alas, ere he could distinguish the tongue, her reckless ambling began taking her further away from him.

As a shadow, he trailed her, pursuing her with a hunter's instincts. Unknowingly, she made it easy for him.

She branched off a few times in opposing directions, displaying clearly that she was as much a stranger in these parts as Ragnar was. Several times he had looked back over his shoulder contemplating the distance he was risking by plunging deeper into these foreign woods. It was when he desired to go no further - and was entirely confident that this woman was alone - that he slipped from the concealment obtained from the woods and let himself be seen.

He anticipated her change of heart a second before she made it and was there to catch her startled gaze the moment she spun on her heels to retrace her steps.

Immediately she froze; a stifled gasp swallowed quickly in the back of her throat. Almost imperceptibly her fingers tightened around her strange device as her eyes darted over his appearance. At his side, his ax still had flecks of blood from spots he had missed in his initial wipe of the weapon, and he was sure splattered red ornamented his face and clothed chest. A slow smile tugged at his lips bearing an overwhelming resemblance to something feral as he enjoyed her eyes on him.

"You are a stranger?" he poised it as a question, though his tone was indicative of knowing the answer.

The woman's eyes snapped back to his from where they had been staring at the lethal array of weapons strapped to his belt. Slowly, she shook her head, voicing a stuttered response in a language unfamiliar to him. He did not doubt her authenticity, though, immediately his interest was piqued even further. A new language meant a new land, a new land meant new riches, and new riches held the tantalizing treasure of more knowledge.

In mere seconds a plan had formulated.

The woman still stood frozen, like prey who knew they were caught yet clung to the hope that if they drew little attention to themselves they'd rediscover their freedom.

"I have a proposition for you," Ragnar began in a tone of voice that might have been interpreted as mocking in his overt congeniality. It was clear she didn't understand him, if the desperate shaking of her head was anything to go by. And which only intensified when he brought himself a step closer to her.

With a trembling step back she interrupted him speaking again in her tongue; the hitch in her voice audible.

"You will come with me," he said, keeping pace with her, never quickening his step in a terrifying show of unconcerned victory. He had her, and both knew it. She stumbled away regardless, tripping on her own feet as she was unwilling to turn her back towards him. The useless implement she held she began defensively brandishing when his eyes glinted.

"There is a story to your presence, and I would have it; a meaning to your language." His gaze dropped to her denim-clad legs deliberately, then back to her eyes. "A reason for why you wear such tight trousers where any man may appreciate your form with little imagination."

She spoke again, almost pleading as her footing faltered over some roots, and Ragnar deemed it time to end the cat-and-mouse game. With little effort he was before her, trapping her between his form and the solid trunk of an oak. Grasping first her wrist, he little expected the rattle to his head when the woman suddenly struck out with her odd stick and attempted to flee. His grip tightened immediately, holding her to him, as he brought her right before his nose where he proceeded to stare down at her squirming figure. Her entire body was engaged in struggling against him, tears streaming down her already wet face as he closed his large hands around both her wrists. Even then the fight persisted in her. Her fists railed against his chest, straining to break free of his hold. The curved handle of her stick proceeded to strike Ragnar in the face a couple more times before he wrenched it from her grip and flung it blindly behind him.

He was beginning to bristle at the soreness in his nose from the implement he'd initially deemed useless.

With a final attempt, the woman threw her body weight at him, knocking him only slightly off balance, though, startling him nevertheless at the move. She was able to slip her wrists from his grasp and, forgetting her stick, darted away. However, the North Man was too sharp for her. His grasping reach for her caught her round the middle, sending her crashing to the forest floor where her head collided with the hard ground; the impact rendering her unconscious.

Ragnar breathed heavily from where he fell atop her stomach and looked up to see her still form. His brow furrowed minutely until he saw the flutter of a pulse in the dip of her jaw. Taking a moment to examine her unimpeded at such proximity he decided that he had made the right choice in seeking her out. Her face agreed with him and when her eyes would be open once more he hoped to see that flare that had sparked even through her fear. Her hair fell long and tangled prettily in the grass and fallen leaves. There was no stain of blood which told Ragnar that he'd better use this time to his advantage and get her to the boat before she woke. He would investigate later into her satchel.

**. . .**

The others had noticed his absence, but it was Rollo who voiced their question.

"What is this?" He extended his chin to motion at the woman slung over his brother's shoulder.

A few appraising eyes scanned her drooping body as they continued loading the last of their treasures and slaves into the long boat.

"A woman," Ragnar answered broadly, splashing into the sea and walking towards their vessel home. Rollo huffed in irritation at the deflection; he followed after.

"What is she doing here?"

"Presently? She is unconscious." He turned to give Rollo a half-smile. "She was not an easy catch."

"Why are you bringing her? We already have many slaves. She will be an extra mouth to feed." Briefly, his eyes roved over her raised derrière, taking in the shapely cut of her legs on display.

"Is that your only complaint against her coming?"

"It matters little to me which creature you decide to plow, only don't let your cock decide who has the smaller ration."

Ragnar swung into the boat with a little difficulty due to the woman, but when his feet were solidly on the deck of the boat, the woman slumped in front of him against the side, he looked down at his brother.

"Your proficiency with words brother leaves little to the imagination. There will be no shortages of food," he assured before hauling the woman back up and bringing her farther down the boat, effectively winning the argument.

Rollo spit into the sea, watching his brother's back a moment longer. He finally turned away with an unpleasant twitch to his lip as the last of the load was brought on board and the Vikings cast off.

* * *

The first thing Molly was aware of was a nauseating dip and rise that moved her body, and which made her spinning head that much more unbearable. Her eyes were shut still, and she decided to let them remain as a shield against an unfamiliar scene. The sounds engulfing her were foreign and baffling. The voices of men speaking in a different language rang left and right of her while the rushing song of the sea made clear why she was experiencing vertigo. A cool sea spray tickled her cheek causing her to flinch.

Her head was lowered, her chin nearly touching her chest, and she felt a soreness at the back of her neck from being bent so. The throbbing on the side of her skull, however, outweighed any of her other discomforts.

Molly remembered falling; remembered the man who'd appeared out of nowhere, interrupting her hysterical hike through the forest.

Upon quitting the shore with the mind of returning to her friends, Molly underwent a transformative experience of confusion, denial, anger, then raw fear when the horrid screams had pierced the stifling quiet. It was then that she heard the distant crash and clang of metal, of fearsome roars that she instinctively knew no animal emitted. In her turmoil and desperation to get away from whatever violence was taking place, and to somehow return to something she knew, Molly had lost her way in the trees. The broad trunks soon turned maze-like, only increasing her panic and seeping away any vestiges of rational thinking she might have had at her disposal.

It hardly mattered when the screaming stopped. The screaming had happened, and she prayed that whatever had caused such anguished cries would miss her entirely. Interestingly, she felt guilty at feeling no guilt in wanting to help in whatever crises had just occurred. Without even seeing what evil had befallen, she knew she was out of her depth and possibly a bit mad. When she'd first climbed the path of the cliffs that lead to the B&B she'd found nothing. No lodgings and no town; as if it had never been.

When _he_ appeared, when she turned and found herself face to face with a heavily armored man, visible blood flecked on his clothes, his face, and disturbingly on the blade of his ax, she felt a numbing that nearly threatened immobility.

Where was he now, Molly wondered?

A tall wave rocked her and the boat close to upright, and her fear, which seemed endless this day, compelled her to scream in horror at the reality of her situation. She strangled the impulse with a low whimper, one that was drowned out by all the other noises, and forced herself to remain quiet.

He'd kidnapped her! And with that little understanding it was all she needed to know that she had to get away – even if it meant succumbing to the ocean. A known fate, even fatal, was preferable to the unknown horrors that lay in wait.

With the seed of intention planted firmly in her mind, beating back the fear that had consumed her was easier with the prospect of action. Slowly, Molly cracked open her eyes, fluttering her lashes in tiny blinks to clear away the hazy grime coating her sight. When her vision cleared, she was grateful for the curtain her long hair provided, concealing most of her face, bowed as it was. Extending her consciousness to the rest of her body, she became aware of herself being propped up against something, her feet bent in front of her, while her unbound hands lay in her lap. Her umbrella was long gone, but she still had her bag; she felt it's strap across her chest. Strangely, that comforted her.

It was the only chance she had. It was the only _choice_ she had.

The men's voices continued, and absently she heard them as she worked up her courage to spring for her freedom. She felt certain that she was against the side of the boat, therefore a leap, and quick turn would see her over the side.

Suddenly boots entered her line of vision and stopped in front of her. She squeezed her eyes shut, then forced herself to relax to allay suspicion should whoever stood before her stoop down and look. They did indeed stoop down, lowered in a crouch, and Molly felt their presence close to hers. A hand touched her head, smoothing down the side of her face until her chin was caught in their fingers; locks of her hair caught in between. Her head was forced back, exposed to the terrifying environment, and softly placed against the wood, bracing the rest of her form.

Molly willed her breathing to remain even, willed her eyes to remain calmly shut.

She would escape, she thought to herself, encouraging her state of mind to take this attention as nothing more than passing. But then the wicked thought of lust poked at her; of his lust, of every man on this boat's lust. What if that was why she'd been taken? What if they all planned on having their way with her? She was about to spring, uncaring of the hand that still cupped her face, uncaring of the dangerous timing.

She needed to escape!

She was going to!

Now!

The hand left her, and she heard him rise, the heavy tread taking him a few steps from her.

The time was now. No one was expecting it.

Molly's eyes flew open as she blindly turned while scrambling to her feet. Her shaking hands gripped the side of the boat, hauling herself up when she heard the first shouts of protest to her endeavors. The voices grew loud and angry, but she didn't dare look back. Slinging her legs over in a surprisingly fluid movement, she dropped, only to feel an interruption in her fall to the lapping waves scant feet below. Gravity favored her, however, and it wasn't until she felt the shocking cold of the sea that she realized what the hiccup had been. Allowing herself a single glance back, she saw _him_ standing with every intention of jumping in after her, her bag clutched in his fist. But another restrained him, shouting words that the sea swallowed, while physically holding him in place. The boat maintained its course, speeding away from her, while Molly grit her teeth against the cold and the stinging pain of the salt water washing over her head. Her body rose with the waves, her hair sticking to her face as she pulled her eyes away from the striking boat - indicative of another time - and began paddling away. She didn't even care that she lost her bag. Her spirits were somewhat buoyed when she realized that they must have only cast off, for she could see the shore.

Her strokes were strong and deliberate, and to her relief, the shore remained visible. It would be the longest she's ever swum in the ocean, but she could do it. She'd escaped her captors; she would not fail when deliverance was so close.

* * *

Ragnar stood stonily, his narrowed eyes watching the woman's progress, his fist still gripping her satchel. His anger towards his brother was immense, despite the reason that was plain to view in Rollo's argument. They had many slaves already, he knew. He'd been told. That was not what rankled him. It was something Rollo could not understand; something he hadn't understood when Ragnar had protected Athelstan against his blood-lust.

There were more to these raids than violence and treasure – to him at least.

The current was in her favor, pulling her farther and farther away, until she was nothing more than a speck climbing out of the sea and straggling up the beach. Even from this distance he saw that her gait was slow and labored; and had he had absolute command over this vessel she'd already have been back on board and under his careful watch.

She was a slippery one. Almost begrudgingly, Ragnar had to admire her daring; the barest hint of a smile tickled the corner of his mouth as his regret played ruefully on his mind. Now he could only imagine what secrets she had to tell; what manner of society permitted women to be dressed so tantalizingly, and if it was not her society, what circumstance had her attired so. Why it was she was so terrified, even before she'd been aware of him. And if he had discovered these things with her lips to his ear and those legs wrapped around him he wouldn't have minded that either.

She was gone from the beach now, having disappeared from his gaze somewhere between the trees and the lengthening distance growing between them. Ragnar stared some minutes longer until he was certain that he could gain no further sight of her. The men's chatter had died down after her escape, and Rollo, once he ensured his brother's remaining on the boat, had moved away.

With a curl to his lip, Ragnar pushed away from the edge, his attention being caught by the woman's satchel. He'd almost forgotten it in his absorbance of watching her. It's weight was sturdy and the means of opening it occupied Ragnar longer than he anticipated. He finally found success when he tugged on the metal flap and dragged it down the binding that resembled teeth. He frowned at the unusual sound and greedily dipped his hand within, rummaging and pulling out the contents. Most of the items merely raised more questions, though, one or two things were vaguely recognizable. There was a perfect ring of keys, the craftsmanship precise and clean and far the superior of any of their blacksmiths, as well as a book. Ragnar rifled through its pages eagerly, although he found nothing comparable to the works Athelstan had told him of, nor of what he had seen himself in the monasteries of the Christians. There were no colorful illuminations, only scribbles, words that maintained an elusive illegibility. Also unlike the monks' works, there was no neatness to the script. The scratching looped and slanted, were big then small from page to page.

Skimming a hand down one of the open pages, Ragnar sought any clue as to what language he was attempting to read, yet continued to be disappointed. With a snap, he shut the book, but did not return it to the satchel as he did with the rest of her things. Resting it atop his leg, he stared down at it, his eyes mapping its corners as he projected future conversations with Athelstan about translating it for him.

He may have lost the source, but perhaps he would learn of something worth his time from the green book now in his possession.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome! I've had this idea rattling away in my head for the longest time and decided to finally get it down in written form. This first chapter will currently serve more as a teaser trailer of what's to come as I have three-ish other projects on my plate at the moment and would like to finish the rest of this story before posting it in it's entirety. My aim is to not exceed fourteen chapters as I mean this to be a short story rather than cater to long plot lines and arcs.
> 
> The idea of time-travel is always a favorite of mine, and I happen to love fish-out-of-water tales as I feel they can really divulge a person's character through many layers in how they handle things and acclimatize to their new environment. I also love to write OC's because they're a chance to really stretch those creative muscles in creating totally new characters and pitting them against a cast already formed and comfortable with themselves.
> 
> As you no doubt saw the mention of Earl Haraldson, this loosely takes place in the first season, though, with an AU twist of there being no Lagertha or the children. For those of you who love those characters, I'm sorry, but viking or no viking, I'm not going to write one promoting extra-marital affairs. The show-runners already had their fun with Aslaug.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the first chapter.


	2. Berries and Ravens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So changeability is the privilege of human nature, is it not? I decided to change my mind about waiting to post the rest of the story at its completion as there really is no time like the present. I have four completed chapters, and with an idea of six more to write. The next two will come at every other week intervals, which will hopefully give me enough time to get more material out so that I don't leave you high and dry in the middle of the story (which was my original fear). I just began getting too excited for all of you who have followed, favorited, and reviewed to see what happens next.
> 
> So, without further ado, I present the second chapter.

"And you say it was a woman who had this book?" Athelstan asked, threatening Ragnar's patience with the repetitiveness of the question.

"You are a learned man, are you not?" His hands slid firmly from the base of his neck to the crown of his bowed head. Looking up, he pierced the monk with a cool gaze. "Can you read what is written, or not?"

"It is peculiar," Athelstan voiced, running a finger along the strongly-marked scribbles. He was unperturbed by Ragnar's demeanor. Either accustomed to the Northman's exasperation, or too invested in puzzling out this new occupation that had literally been thrown into his lap.

"These markings are clearly expressing something; the regularity to the characters, not to mention the similarities to some of the letters in my own alphabet. Other than that, however, I cannot make out the meaning of the words."

He glanced up at Ragnar, noting the intensity of his gaze while his form appeared relaxed. Athelstan had not been with the Vikings overly long, but there was something akin between the one who sat across from him at the wooden table in the kitchen of his farm. He viewed Ragnar less as captor and more as friend day by day, especially when there was something they could both intellectually devour. He was even growing more confident in deciphering Ragnar's moods.

"You believe there is value to this book?" He raised it in his hands marginally, keeping it open to the page he was currently attempting to dissect.

Ragnar sniffed as he shifted position, brining a lazy hand to rest at the side of his head.

"It is a key, I think."

"To what?"

He shrugged, incorporating his whole face in the expression. "Another land? Another people?"

"You have only recently invaded my shores, and yet you already seek new horizons?" Athelstan said, not hiding his hint of amusement he was uncertain he shouldn't have. Ragnar grinned at him.

"If you were not a man of your G-d, and had seen the woman I had, you would be of the same mind."

"Perhaps," he congenially agreed, dipping his head back to resume his study. "Or perhaps my personal limitations would have propelled me further in discovering this new land where you failed."

"Have caution, monk," but there was no real bite to Ragnar's words.

"I assume you frightened her," he commented, looking back up.

"Why would you assume that?" Ragnar said in a play of mild offense.

"Because you frightened me when first we met."

Ragnar's grin grew beyond his first.

"And because she would be here in addition to the book she carried. Did – is…is she alive?" Athelstan asked, suddenly serious.

Ragnar's grin faltered; the humor leaving his eyes.

"She is."

He dropped his hand, and began picking at a splinter on the table; his focus wavering between his two points of activity.

"Yet you did not bring her?" Athelstan asked unbelieving. Silence stretched for a few seconds until Ragnar successfully broke a piece of wood off.

"She was smarter than you," he said at last, using the jagged splinter to point across the table. "Then again, I was a fool who left her unbound."

Collecting the pieces, Athelstan said amazed, "she escaped you?"

"Hey," Ragnar ceased his fidgeting, and trapped Athelstan in a glare. "Whose side are you on?"

The monk only smiled.

"In this instance, I favor the lady's escape from your clutches. I would not have trusted you not to debauch her."

"Hmm, perhaps you are right," he hummed in agreement, his expression softening. Discarding the splinter, Ragnar tapped the book's binding.

"Tell me more. There are none of your illuminations, only the black markings."

"Indeed, this is no religious text as far as I can tell. There is a lack of elegance or care. The style of writing is inconsistent, yet the book itself speaks of wealth. The binding is extremely precise, perfect almost, and the leather is dyed. Then, of course, there is the ink that is of a kind I have never seen, but would greatly value. Look how it never falters nor fades; it is consistent in each stroke. If I had to guess, this may have been a record for some noble or wealthy lord. What it was doing in the hands of a lady begs the biggest question."

"I am not so certain she was…a lady." The humor returned to Ragnar's countenance, as he clearly meant to conceal how pleased he was of this remark. "Her attire spoke of …"

"Prostitution?"

"Do you know of such things?"

"I am a monk, not an idiot."

"Her trousers did much to help my imagination in filling her out," Ragnar continued, his eyes looking past Athelstan in memory. "She jumped over the side of the boat, you know."

Athelstan expressed his genuine amazement.

"Maybe not a lady then after all, but maybe not yet either a prostitute as you wish her to be."

"Is it not enough that she slipped through my fingers, but you must ruin my daydreams," Ragnar scolded.

"As the only man of G-d in your life, I would be neglecting my duty if I did not make you aware of your folly."

"But He is your G-d, not mine, so what would He care of me anyway?"

"The Lord cares for all His creatures, whether they recognize Him or not."

"He is more generous than my gods."

"And merely waiting for you to realize it," Athelstan smiled good-naturedly. Ragnar returned it with a half smile of his own.

"Go," he gestured with his chin, "continue your study and inform me of anything you find. I must think now."

Athelstan departed to his own corner, despite the table being the preferable work place. There may be an understanding between the pair, but the reality of his residing in his captor's home was still a hard truth to shake.

Ragnar remained seated for a while in deep contemplation; his thoughts varied and grasping, yet always returning to the image of the woman. The very fact that he had had her only to lose her played on his mind in a confusing game of annoyance and intrigue. Idly he wondered what she had done after reaching the shore – where had she gone? At the time, he'd been fairly certain that she did not understand the tongue he himself had only recently learned from Athelstan, but she must have known something.

As gravitating as thoughts of the woman were, they led to nothing more than daydreams that lessened over time. Even the book proved disappointing when Athelstan confessed his bafflement over the script after months of analyses. In time, the incident was remembered as nothing more than an interesting encounter, though was told of as a modern myth by Ragnar's comrades who'd witnessed the event of the woman jumping overboard. They delighted in making her out to be some spirit of the water, therefore, unafraid of plunging into the perilous depths. The more their audiences clamored for descriptions, the more these warrior story-tellers embellished their tales, often contradicting each other.

Years passed and new distractions claimed Ragnar's attention. His rise to Earldom by unseating Haraldson; the tenuous alliance forged with King Horik; the betrayal of Rollo; the redemption of Rollo when he protected what was his brother's from Jarl Borg, keeping safe his home and his people; the loss of Athelstan on one of their raids; and now, six years since the encounter with the woman, Ragnar was once again greeting the shores of the Christians, this time in tow with King Horik. The only thing to serve as memory of that strange meeting was the book, and that he took with him always in hopes of finding someone who could tell him its meaning.

His focus never strayed from their ambitions of gaining land, and talks resumed cordially enough between King Ecbert and their party. That is until King Horik's ambitions outpaced Ragnar's, leading them all to the battle that would see victory for the Christians, and ruin for the Northmen.

**. . .**

Ragnar lay motionless in the mud, his back one with the soil that clung to him as if welcoming him to return to the earth he came from. The noises around him were muted; distant thuds and reverberations; the call of men; the tramp of horses; the familiar strike of steel on bone.

A raven circled overhead. Ragnar watched its flight through barely open slits. His lips were dry and parted despite the drizzle that wet his face; the taste of blood coated his mouth, filling his senses unpleasantly. Was that a man or was it Odin peering down at him? The hard stomp of feet grew nearer. The raven turned inland and out of Ragnar's sight.

More steel on bone.

Willing his head to move, Ragnar tilted his chin up so that he was presented with a reversed view of the approaching enemy. They were presently halted some feet from where he lay, their backs turned as they overzealously insured that the dead Northman, laying broken on the field, was truly departed from this life.

With an internal groan, Ragnar straightened his neck and then proceeded to bring movement back into his immobile limbs. The pain struck sharper than he'd anticipated, and he hastily self-diagnosed that a gash to his leg would make his flight that much harder. Abandoning his legs altogether, Ragnar silently rolled, blending neatly with the mud and blood-soaked battlefield. He had lain near the summit of one of the hills and the force of gravity took over from his tired body once he initiated the action. Unconsciously, he followed the direction the raven had flown in; the looming shadows of the trees welcoming him in its cover at the base of the hill. Their welcome, however, was harsh as he could not stop his momentum. Only the harsh obstacle of a trunk had that power, knocking the wind out of him with the impact.

For a time he lay there; listening to his breathing above the patter of the rain. He was undisturbed, and over time, the pain became more bearable. The throbbing in his stomach subsided, while the wound to his leg itched. He would have to clean it, he knew, but for now he would rest.

**. . .**

The drizzle had ceased when Ragnar opened his eyes from the hazy sleep he'd fallen into. His head felt clearer, and his eyes were capable of opening wide, which he took advantage of a couple of times before rubbing the sleep away. His leg, however, remained a problem, as did his location. He was uncertain of the land that was no doubt crawling with his enemies. He also became aware that while he still had his axe, his sword and shield were not with him. He cursed.

"Well this is a pretty mess," he muttered to himself, grunting as he sat up. He couldn't see much of the battlefield; the hill he'd rolled down blocked most of his view, yet he did not think walking back into that open space was a good idea so soon after their defeat. If anything, he would skirt the tree-line of the woods until he could find a route that would bring him back to camp.

The woods were quiet, and save for the few rustles his limping produced, the ground was far too soggy for any leaf or twig to crunch underfoot. His eyes remained vigilant, seeking threats that did not come. He was still armed, but as he progressed, his grip loosened on the handle of his axe.

His intention of edging the eaves of the forest were proving more difficult than anticipated as patches were too thick to cross, and not wishing to walk exposed in the open, was forced to take a route deeper through the trees. On and on he walked, him limp bothering him only when he thought of it. Still, it twinged with each step.

It was nearing midday when a break in the trees spread into a grassy path, bright and green – a striking difference to the scene he'd left. Ragnar hesitated in the shadows; this appeared to be a common-way, though not a soul walked on it presently. There was definition to it, indents in the grass where horses hooves walked, as well as the steady double line impressed by numerous carts wheeling past this spot. He swept his gaze up and down the path, deciding finally to risk the exposure when a figure rounded a bend in the road and came walking towards him.

Slinking back into the shadows, Ragnar watched, first in impatience, then in curiosity as something struck him as being familiar. It was a woman dressed as any other woman of this land would attire herself of a lower rank; a large basket secured around her crooked elbow. She walked slowly, clearly in no hurry to get to wherever she was headed, and which aggravated Ragnar further as his impatience had been transferred to seeing the woman's face.

As she came nearer and nearer to view, her expression neutral as her eyes wandered lazily from point to point of her walk, he could not help an amazed grin to tease his lips as he recognized her; perhaps a little older, but definitely her, and looking far lovelier than he remembered. He considered that she had not the terrified expression that he knew her best by. She was calm, in her own world, and unfortunately in a dress that hid her pretty legs.

Ragnar realized the decision he had to make; soon she would pass out of view, though if he approached her now, she would, without a doubt, run from him and easily outpace him in his present state. He viewed it as no mere chance that their paths would cross each other's again, though they'd not shared one understandable word between them. He had followed the raven, and that path had led him here, right to where she was walking.

He would follow her, he decided. Keeping a distance, he would follow her and take further action as necessary. The battle against King Ecbert's men may have seen the Northmen beaten, seen their endeavors shattered, but right at this moment, Ragnar would follow the soft footfalls of the woman who'd escaped him all those years ago.

* * *

_800 AD, Wessex_

Out of all her duties, gathering berries for the cook's jam in the nearby field was Molly's favorite. There was no thought involved, and it had that seasonal attractiveness of only lasting for so long. Her basket felt comfortably heavy on her arm as she made her way back to her master's house. Her employer's house.

Master – employer; it was all one here.

After her arrival, and subsequent escape from the Northmen (as she later found out their identities), Molly had rambled aimlessly in a state of delirium and doubt. The shock of her attempted abduction, her wherewithal to escape, and the terrifying swim in the wild ocean had cured her of any further tears, yet she still was oblivious to all else around her. There had been no connecting point, nothing that stood out remarkably as bringing her from point A to point B in her sudden change of situation.

It was by chance that Molly had found the town only just abandoned by her would-be abductors. Tousled by the sea, and red-eyed, it was to the general opinion that she had been caught up by the raid, her clothes stolen (for surely no lady would present herself so scantily clad), no doubt by one of those wild men from the North.

Molly had understood none of this. In fact she remained in a state of ignorance for well over a year, trusting her fate to strangers and her own street smarts to direct her towards existence. She had ceased living that day – her sole priority became survival. In the blink of an eye her life was forever changed; the way she thought altered inexorably. There was no one but herself in whom she could trust, and as dangers continued to loom large and towering over her day-to-day, she learned the art of keeping a bowed head.

News of the raid had spread over the weeks and, as Christian fellowship commanded, those who could afford to offer generous assistance did not want to be outdone by their fellow lords and ladies. It was one such lady that had taken a liking to Molly's subdued manner, yet youthful countenance. When it was learned that the 'young woman' as she'd been termed, did not speak their language, the lady had taken pity over her and decided to take her into her employ. The nerve-wracking experience of traveling a great distance with even more strangers, and with no knowledge of the purpose of the journey, nor her requirement, Molly could only accept what came to her and make of it what she could. Acknowledging how little power she had did much in aiding her in how to maneuver these new waters.

Though the barrier of language was a hard and grueling one to overcome, within her second year of this new life the flow of conversation came easier. Unlike her former self, however, she exhibited no inclination in resuming her talkative nature. There was no one to talk to. Her employer was certainly above her, despite her initial pity; her fellow maids and serving staff engaged with her in mundane things, but they'd learned early on that Molly was a quiet sort - quiet, but dutiful and uniquely lacking in ambition. This made her harmless, allowing her to evade the censure of her co-workers and the attacks they pulled on each other.

The large manor that no longer housed the lady that had brought Molly, was the estate and property of the eldest son who'd inherited everything at the passing of his mother. While Molly had no communal relationship with the lady, she had preferred her to her heir. Still, nothing had changed much in her sphere of existence and she had to be content with that.

Walking up the stone path that led to the servant's entrance, Molly pushed through the heavy wooden door that creaked on its hinges, and into the bright, south-facing kitchen. Depositing her burden on the wide table, she looked around curiously at the empty space.

"Hilda?" She called, peering down the corridor. There was a murmur of voices coming from one of the other rooms of the servants' hall, followed by an excited squeal. Bemused, Molly stepped forward to investigate what had drawn everyone from the kitchen when the familiar creak of the back door caught her attention.

Turning, she caught sight of a large man, covered in a mixture of blood and mud, leaning on the door as his piercing gaze stuck her to the spot. There was no amount of grime that could obscure the one face that would remain etched forever in her conscious – the one face that haunted her nightmares from time to time.

"You!" she breathed, taking a shaky step back. The sounds of the others continued to filter down the hall, though they now seemed miles away.

He made no move towards her, only continued his posture against the door, yet this did little to comfort her. She knew that Hilda the cook had an array of knives she favored, and while she might be cross with having them used for anything other than the preparation of her delectable meals, she would understand the necessity of the situation.

"You can speak now – that is good to know," he said, his grin peered out from his tilted chin. "Were you pretending before?"

Molly made a sudden grab for the biggest knife on the stone counter behind her, and brandished it with both hands.

"Leave! Get out!" she commanded rather boldly considering how terrified she was. Her hands were sweaty, as was most of the rest of herself; a steady trickle streamed between her breasts and down her stomach, absently tickling her. "I'll scream," she threatened.

"Scream, then. I would like to meet your friends."

Molly couldn't discern if this was meant as a threat against her co-workers' lives, or if the Viking truly did not care if his presence was known. The chatter down the hall gave her some courage, but then, to her dismay, the friendly voices began moving away. They were entering the main house in a body, unwittingly leaving her alone with a most dangerous man.

She should have screamed. Perhaps she still could.

But then – what if he lunged for her? What if he stuck her through the heart with the very knife she had poised at him? He was a warrior, skilled and lethal, and, for some reason, an unfortunate magnet she couldn't seem to shake.

"What do you want?" she asked at last.

"There are many things I want," he pushed himself away from the door, grimacing. Molly startled back, crashing into the side table, her arms trembling as she positioned the knife even higher. He ignored her, limping towards the central table where her basket of berries sat. "But first, I need your help."

His eyes met hers, unblinking. They stood nearer now, though, with the table continuing to separate them. The silence stretched, measured by their audible breaths; one heavy with fatigue and pain, the other laced with fear and suspicion.

"Why?"

"Because I know you, and you will help me," he said earnestly. Molly stiffened.

"You do not know me."

Maintaining her gaze, the Viking made slow, deliberate, steps around the table, approaching her as she pressed herself as firmly as she could against the unyielding edge of the side tables. Her whimper morphed into a shaky gasp the moment his rough hand grasped her wrist, echoing his first hold on her from years prior. The blade of the knife pressed against his throat, yet with no pressure applied as he leaned towards her.

"I know that you will not use this knife on me," he practically whispered, "or you would have done so the moment you saw me."

"I am not a ruthless killer," she hissed back, craning her neck closer to his. Their arms still locked between them as the knife hovered close to taking a life.

" _I know_ ," he smiled, the expression fully visible beneath the mud on his face.

Molly's eyes widened a fraction as she realized that her own words conceded his point. A flare of anger was coaxed from her, and recklessly she aimed to knee him in his most sensitive spot while attempting to pull free from his grip. It was a sloppy maneuver coming from her, though she succeeded in freeing herself, though he managed to evade her knee. Letting her fury fuel her actions, Molly sent out a wide swipe with the knife, which he easily avoided in spite of a grimace of pain. Her next jab was caught and in the following second the knife clattered to the stone floor.

"You don't know me," she spat, her chest heaving after the effort, disliking how it momentarily drew his attention. To her consternation, his features told of nothing but satisfaction.

"Perhaps," he said, his voice maintaining that low timber. With a gentle slither, his calloused hand released her, sliding down her forearm. She brought her arms to her chest, crossing them over as protection. "Or perhaps you do not yet know yourself."

He moved from her then, limping back around the table to lean against it, his back towards her.

"I am injured," he said over his shoulder. The generous beam of sunlight entering the kitchen windows shadowed his profile, while highlighting Molly, casting a glint in her eyes as she observed him cautiously. "Will you help me?" He sought her gaze for an instant, almost as if he wanted to see her reaction, before lowering his eyes and turning his head forward.

Nothing further was said on either of their parts. The Viking remained half seated on the table, his back the only privacy Molly was allowed as she clutched the neckline of her dress with nerves. It seemed impossible that he was giving her an out. Yet could she not slip past the door and down the corridor without making a sound?

She could – she meant to.

She hesitated.

Slowly, with the weight of what felt like bricks, Molly hedged her feet around the first bend of the table, bringing her ever closer into the Viking's range of sight. She couldn't say what exactly her reasoning was for not running when the chance was so tempting. He was wounded and would be outnumbered by the men her employer kept for his own personal security; nasty men that leered at her and the other women. One trembling step after the other, the width of the table never felt so long, until finally she stood before the Viking, out of arms reach. The gnawing grip she had on her dress was nearly strangled into a state of permanent wrinkles when his gaze flicked up, his blue eyes turned translucent from the light of the sun.

Swallowing under his stare, she subtly nodded her chin at him.

"I-Is it your leg?"

"Among other things."

Another silence lapsed between them; she, absently taking in how battered and bruised he actually was, and formulating what next she was going to say.

"Are you going to hurt me?" she asked plainly, meeting his gaze as bravely as she could.

He held it, silently appraising her before answering, "I will not hurt you. It was never my intention to cause you harm, you know."

"I doubt that," she said, shuffling her feet with nerves.

He shrugged, clearly unconcerned whether she believed him or not. "Do you think I am in much of a way of posing a threat to you at present?"

"Yes," she answered at once.

"And yet I can see you will help me anyway," he pointed a brown finger at her face, as if exposing her thoughts with that simple gesture. She shifted her jaw in discomfort, her teeth lightly grinding against each other. "Your gaze has been drawn to my leg as we've been speaking. That is how I know you will tend to me."

Molly deliberately looked away from his wounds and into his eyes, willing any fierceness she possessed to encompass her countenance as warning. His lax posture against the table exhibited none of the wariness she'd hoped to achieve. In fact, a coy smile was gently lifting the corner of his mouth.

"If I help you…you will leave?" she meant it to come out as a demand, however her nerves couldn't quell the inflection. He tilted his head, his lips slightly parted as his tongue played behind his teeth.

"Once you have tended me," he dipped his chin in a nod, "I will leave this place."

Not entirely satisfied by this answer, Molly deliberated a second longer, eyeing him all the while. She knew only simple first aid, but at least she knew the importance of disinfecting his wound and pressing clean linen to it. She supposed that would have to be the extent of her medical care, and yet that was more than what he deserved.

If she chose not to treat him, he was too loose a cannon for her to anticipate his reaction. Would he remain, or try to get at her in some way? Would he bring about his own death if he persisted in seeking out her help and instead drew the attention of the household? Molly held no love for her master's guards; they were cruel and beady eyed with a love for violence. It took little imagination to know what they would do if they learned of the Viking's presence; even less to deduce what they would do to her for aiding the invader.

Taking a step closer, Molly sought his gaze, the gaze of the man who greeted her in nightmares every so often; the gaze that was already watching her with a piercing quality that extricated an ounce more of her courage.

"I am sorry," she found herself saying, "but you must leave. I will give you alcohol and fresh linen, but you cannot stay here."

His brows rose as his lips simultaneously frowned with his shrugging shoulders.

"Perhaps some bread and cheese can be added to the other supplies?" he requested, seemingly unbothered by her refusal.

Molly did not trust his nonchalance, though she set about the kitchen collecting the things she'd promised as well as the food asked for. She never lost sight of him, always turning to make sure he remained on his perch at the table as she quickly worked.

Opening the door with its customary squeak, sunlight struck a beam straight through the middle of the kitchen, highlighting the Viking and presenting a true picture of how ghastly he looked. A tinge of guilt gnawed at Molly's conscience for leaving him like this.

"The alcohol is not for drinking, unless to help with the pain, but you must use it to clean your wounds," she informed him, standing by the open door, basket in hand. With a twitch of pain, he pushed away from the edge of the table and walked towards her. "If you run out, you must find some way to boil water in order to…" there was no word for 'disinfect' in Old English and she doubted there was a translation for 'sterilize'. "…to…purify anything that comes in contact with your wound.

"You know much of healing?" he questioned, his gaze once more pinning her like a butterfly to a board. She jolted when she felt the rough calluses of his hand slide past her fingers as he took the basket from her.

"N-no. No, I am only telling you simple things that most people know."

He quirked a doubtful brow at her. The golden light cast their faces in half-shadow where they stood in the doorway.

"I have never heard of the methods you've told me."

"That is because you are not from here," she answered quickly, fidgeting against their prolonged conversation.

"Just as you are not from here," he stated.

Molly clasped her hands behind her back, digging her nails into her palms.

Suddenly a trill of laughter floated down the corridor, reaching Molly like the midnight stroke that broke Cinderella's enchantment. Forgetting her fear of him, she lightly pushed against his chest, mindful of his injuries as she whispered for him to leave.

"They will see you! Oh! and they'll kill me! Please, flee!"

In the six years that Molly had endured learning the colloquialisms, not only of the place but of the time, had proven a bitter taskmaster. Yet, now the use of 'flee' rather than 'go', or 'get', tripped only slightly on her tongue as she urged him out the door. He, however, was proving to be a mountain of a man, vulnerable body notwithstanding, as he resisted her.

"Who will kill you?" he asked, serious.

"Never mind that now! Flee!"

Her gentle shoves turned more forceful when suddenly she found herself being whipped around by the Viking, an arm pressing against her throat, locking her neck to his chest. When she could once again focus, her eyes caught sight of a stunned Delwyn standing framed in the entry to the kitchen from the corridor – a piglet in her arms. A distant part of Molly's mind wondered if the animal was what had everyone giggling earlier.

Her fingers scrabbled against the corded muscles of his forearm and bicep as she drew her hips away trying to pull free. His strength held. Though, she noticed breathing wasn't a difficulty as she feared it would be. His hold on her was firm, yet not abrasive.

"That is a nice pig," the Viking remarked, ending the stunned silence and surprising Molly at his direction of dialogue. Poor Delwyn was rooted to the spot, her eyes impossibly wide as her entire figure shook. The pig in question let out a grunting squeal at the palpable fear.

"Delwyn," Molly gasped, hooking her fingers between the Viking's arm and her neck. "Run! Run, Delwyn!" she urged at the seemingly immobile woman. The Viking stepped back, forcing Molly to match his movement. She did so with a stumble, her hands remaining the only barrier between her throat and his arm. Her eyes remained riveted on Delwyn.

"You would do well to listen, Delwyn," the Viking said lightly, almost unconcerned at his tenuous position. If either of the women screamed, attention would inevitably be drawn towards the kitchens where his waning strength would be tested. "I have no quarrel with the house."

Unexpectedly, the pig fell with a crash, its stubby legs scrabbling against the stone floor, squealing in protest at the rough treatment as it scurried away. Delwyn's screaming reverberated off the hollow pots hanging from hooks above the hearth, echoing down the corridor, and piercing Molly's eardrums painfully.

"Time to go," the Viking grunted, hauling her with effort down the single step out the kitchen. His gait was awkward from the contributing factors of manhandling Molly while still gripping the basket. His arm released her only for his hand to fist in her hair at the base of her skull, forcing her to comply with his retreat. She gasped and hissed at the pain, refraining from a struggle as Delwyn's terrified face stuck in her mind. Their hurried, yet stunted steps carried them several yards before a challenging shout sounded behind them.

Molly automatically tried to look back, and for a second she saw Emory, her least favorite of her master's guards, charging after them before a tug pulled her back forward. The hard thumping of running feet grew louder behind them until Molly was thrown unceremoniously to the side as her chronic captor spun fluidly to precisely deflect a blow that would have cleaved his head in two.

The basket fell with a tumble, as the Viking employed both hands to grip either ends of his ax, the handle bearing the brunt of Emory's sharpened blade. From the ground, Molly watched with an anticipatory cringe at the inevitability of bloodshed. This life had surely toughened her up, but she had still been spared the sight of gory violence right before her eyes and at close proximity — save for that one time six years ago when she had found the town.

Emory was a fine fighter, but his passion was a caustic flame, likely to extinguish after the first throes of battle. He fought for the blood, not for any honor. His strikes came quick and stealthy, slipping past the Viking's guard more than once. Yet, what little Molly could tell from the blur of fighting, was the Viking's continued strength. There was tactic to his movements so that even when Emory's sword struck like a snake beneath the Viking's arm, he maneuvered away from the blow, using that momentum to launch an attack of his own. However, his wounds still deprived him of a decisive victory, of which Molly was certain would be his had he been hale and hearty. She did not claim a vast knowledge of warfare in the slightest, but she knew enough to recognize a walking weapon when one of her master's best guards began to falter under continued blows.

Belatedly, Molly realized that there was shrill screaming piercing the dry air. Looking back at the kitchen door, she spotted Delwyn uselessly exhausting her lungs, her cheeks afire with either fear or lack of breath. Motion caught her eye, and she saw that more guards, no doubt drawn by the horrible racket, were filing in from around the house, while some slipped past Delwyn, paying her no heed as they made for their struggling comrade.

"There are more coming!" Molly shouted. She didn't know why she warned him; perhaps because she felt that some invisible line had been drawn and they would see the guilt in her face, see that she offered aide, no matter the smallness of the gesture, to one of the Northmen.

The Viking didn't even acknowledge her, though with a final swing, the head of his ax found its home in Emory's gut. Blood splattered in an arc, streaking across the Viking's middle, and, more disturbingly, landing in a myriad of specks across Molly's face.

There was a moment, a mere millisecond, in which she was capable of viewing this scenario very pragmatically. A man she didn't like, but had known for a few years just died in front of her, his innards barely contained by the remaining walls of his flesh. His life's blood now marred against the Viking's already filthy jerkin, and which also pulsed hotly against her own nose, cheeks, and chin. The blade of the ax a tortured image of gore. Emory's eyes nothing more than glass — his face a frozen picture of his final pain.

She couldn't scream. How could she? She didn't mourn the guard's passing, she realized. Did that make her cold, she wondered? No. _No_ , she was in shock. Her mind skipped like a bee in the wind, bouncing off tenuous petals born by a gust that she had no control over. Thoughts and images unrelated to the violence flashed before her eyes; her mother picking her up from school; Captain America assembling the Avengers; a drop of her blood staining white fabric inflicted by a sewing needle. Random pictures of her life filled her head in a nauseating slideshow that left her blind and deaf to the scene that had prompted this brief departure from reality.

It was as an echo, shadowy at best, where the corners slurred into one another in a most distorting way that set her mind reeling further. The Viking had her, some part of her mind was aware of this. Vaguely she recalled his shouting, his hands on her again; pushing her, dragging her. The thunder of armored feet clanging behind them. She'd lost her footing and fallen hard on her knees; a sharp rock piercing her skin in a jagged line. She hadn't even felt it. The oncoming rush of greenery, a hazy canopy whose quiet was disturbed by their approach. But suddenly, there was nothing. She lay prostrate on the soft earth, her nose buried in the soil as a firm hand pressed against her back. The fresh scent of the earth overwhelmed her senses, and ignoring the particles that shot up and tickled her nostrils, she breathed hungrily as one emerging from deep water. In the dispassionate earth, Molly found some grounding. It neither cared nor asked what she meant by gulping up its soil – it simply was, and would be long after this disaster.

Whether it was seconds, minutes, or hours passing, time held no sway to the current fragility of her mind. She wanted never to open her eyes again; never to move from this safe, hidden position. Never to see the seal of her life, now irrevocably changed once again.

His hand remained fixed to her back; a pesky line linking her to the reality she'd rather not face again. The hand was strong, however, an unavoidable presence separated from her skin by a mere two layers. The heat branded her otherwise shivering body, and she was brought grudgingly back to the present by its coaxing humanity. It moved slowly up her spine, as if uncertain of its route. The fingers dragged on the ridges made by the fabric of her clothes. She felt with indifference his touch at the base of her neck, grazing only minimally the peek of her bare skin there, before moving to her shoulder where he offered a comforting squeeze, and then withdrew his touch.

With his sudden absence, Molly blinked, jerking onto her elbows and staring at the patch of scuffed up soil her face had produced. She could still feel it in her mouth and around her cheeks and nose. Automatically, she coughed. Then again, and a third time for good measure. She realized that tears were mingling with the saliva leaking from the corner of her lips, and the prospect of surrendering to hysterics was almost too tempting.

"Hush!" The Viking's whisper tickled her ear. "They are still near enough to hear us."

Molly silently gasped at his voice right in her ear, seeping into her brain and becoming her only thought. Her mouth remained open, taking in shocked breaths, as if it surprised her that the function of breathing still remained capable. Her eyes, inches from the ground, stared at its teeming community of natural life without seeing anything. Her vision clamped on a troop of carpenter ants, dutifully making their way over a mountain of an oak's root to the other side where, hopefully, a better life awaited them.

 _'What a ridiculous thought!'_ But Molly continued to watch their progress with undivided attention, finding once more a way to ground her mind; the Viking beside her drifting momentarily to the realm of hallucination once more.

Alas, he was not to remain there.

"We must keep moving. They will come across us eventually if we remain."

She let herself be drawn to her feet where she was surprised to find her balance cooperating. A lingering dizziness swayed her initially, but after putting a hand out on a trunk to steady herself, her eyes cleared and almost unwillingly, looked up, accepting that there was no going back. Quickly, she took inventory; her knees twinged with minor soreness, but from experience she knew they were nothing more than scruffs; her hair had come loose from its cap and the plaits she wore them in hung loosely coiled at the base of her neck, a mild irritant; but most importantly, she noticed the absence of something.

"Where's the basket?" Her voice was thick with the question. She didn't expect that that would have been her first contribution to this unexpected path; but when she saw the Viking, soaked in the shared blood of his and his adversary's, and no sign of the basket loaded with medical supplies, she felt oddly irked.

"I assume it is back with the guard. Little use it will be to him."

"You left it?" she asked, complying with his tread, though there was no mistaking her irritable tone. His grasp was strong and encompassing, though it only retained the small purchase of her wrist, and brooked no arguments. For a man severely wounded, and fresh from yet another battle, he seemed incapable of tiring. But then she remembered his efforts at standing upright against the broad kitchen table and found her eyes narrowing in grudging wonder at his mere will to keep going.

"It was a choice between it and your sorry self. A decision I am already coming to regret as my stomach aches with hunger." He stopped suddenly, causing her to bump into him, at which point a small transference of blood occurred. It was easy to keep her eyes averted from her front where the blood now stained her frock, as the Viking was looking directly at her. "I don't suppose I could take a bite out of you?"

There was no response to that, save open-mouthed astonishment. Was he serious? Or merely teasing her?

A glimmer of amusement passed over the glassy expression of his pained eyes, and she was again distracted. No longer embarrassed by his true or mocking implications, she spoke firmly, "You're in too much pain."

"And what makes you think that?" His expression made it clear that if she thought otherwise, she was immensely thick.

She wanted to know where they were going; how long it would take; where the guards were, just how long he thought he could go on like this, and all manner of similar queries that left her tongue stumbling over which to ask first.

"I-I…whe – why…"

"You can gather your thoughts as we walk," he said, resuming their hike through the forest. They went slowly, taking care of their surroundings and pausing whenever they became aware of an approaching guard. Molly saved her questions for later. Their flight through the forest did much to sharpen her senses after emerging from her shock, and made her aware that arguing with a Viking, who may or may not be her worst enemy presently, was best done with the absence of marauding guards. She eyed him, however, waiting for the moment that he would keel over. His broad shoulders had long taken the appearance of being weighed down by a tree's bough, while his limp only aided in their snail's pace.

She wanted to say something, to suggest a break perhaps, though was a little afraid to do so. They'd already had to divert their direction a handful of times to avoid being caught, and couldn't help but think that sitting ducks were a far easier target. However, that reasoning didn't quell her sore feet, nor her pangs of hunger, having only partaken in some of the berries she picked that morning for breakfast.

"Er…Mr. – I mean…what do I call you?"

The Viking didn't stop, though a tilt to his head indicated that he was listening.

His voice, barely higher than the rustle of the wind dancing between the trees, drifted back to her.

"You may call me what you like," he replied simply. "And you," he briefly looked over his shoulder at her, "what do I call you?"

"Hmm? Oh. Er…Molly. My name is Molly Hatch," she answered, slightly thrown by his evasiveness.

" _Molly Hatch?_ " he repeated. She could hear the frown in his tone. "What an ugly name."

Despite herself, she let out a laugh like a silent cannon blast, short and quick, but with just enough humor to reach her eyes. The Viking glanced back at her again, a smile lifting the corner of his mouth.

"It is not an ugly name," she defended, allowing a small grin of her own to linger momentarily. It was a grasp at something menial and unrelated, and could not last as her features returned soon after to their grim expression.

"No? Tell me what it means and perhaps I will change my mind," the Viking continued.

Rather than answering, Molly kept quiet. She wasn't sure if she wanted to get into the habit of opening her mouth to him; it held the possibility of becoming comfortable with him. Instinct told her to flee, to leave him while he could not chase her. Alas, reason cautioned this impulse. Should she be caught by the guards alone, there would be no one to help her.

Suddenly, the Viking reached back and slipped his hand over one of hers, giving it a squeeze, and breaking through her thoughts.

"Well?"

It took her a moment to remember what they'd been discussing, and when she did, no humor remained.

"It's not important. It's just a name," she spoke harshly, and pulled away from him.

Neither said anything more, and he did not attempt to reach for her again.

She was angry at her trapped position; angry at the Viking who'd ultimately caught her; and angry that she cringed in sympathy with every other step he took. His gait was clearly labored, and not for the first time she wondered if he would die of infection. _Was it possible to die of infection_ , she asked herself, trying to remember if it just led to death or if it was the cause itself. Shaking her head as if to clear it of medical science she didn't understand, she told herself the most important thing was that one way or another he would be in no shape to dodge the law for much longer.

She was pulled sharply from her day dreams by a shove to the ground and the alarming weight of the Viking atop of her.

"Wha – "

His hand clamped over her mouth, and she wisely shut it under his grimy palm. She could feel the bite of his fingers digging into her cheek, as the taste of blood bloomed suddenly on her tongue. She'd bitten her lip. Her eyes were wide, and staring up at his extended jaw, his beard tickling her nose and smelling of something questionable. He was staring up, straight ahead, his face impossibly close to hers, as the breath in their bodies rose and fell in time to each other – the beat of their racing hearts providing the tempo to their abrupt distress.

"Let us turn back," a muffled voice bloomed from a short distance, strangely sounding as if conjured from thin air by the suddenness of its appearance.

"Let us first investigate further down this hollow. We have come far brother, and I will not turn back until we see our comrade avenged. The damned Northmen must be taught a lesson they will not soon forget."

A grumbling acquiescence from the first fellow followed this bold declaration and the sound of their dismounting their horses thumped heavily in the still forest. Their footfalls came heavy and approaching, and with terror, Molly caught the Viking's eye. There were mere seconds before they would be seen, and a blind terror made her grip the Viking's shoulders in some pretence of a shield. To her astonishment, however, his hands moved down her body, passed her waist and hips and quickly rucked up her dress.

"Play along," he hissed in her ear and, with a deliberate shift, settled himself between her legs, forcing them open. Her cooperation was yielded only by her inability to comprehend the fast-paced business at hand; the simultaneous rustle of the guards, now nearly overhead, sounded loudly in her tense ears as the Viking began to pantomime the very intimate actions of sexual relations.

Molly lay frozen for what felt like minutes, but really could have only been a split-second. She maintained her grip on his arms, clutching him fiercely, and couldn't decipher if it was a silent plea on her part for him to stop, or to remain atop as her protector. His eyes bore into hers, imploring her to respond, and with a jump, she felt his hand slide up her leg, further revealing her skin to the cool air and his searing touch.

The footsteps closed in on them, then stopped abruptly. Above her, the Viking let out a satisfied grunt which broke through her state of disbelief and moved her to action. Awkwardly, she tried bucking up against him, but then stopped, feeling too self-conscious. His lips came down to brush hers.

"Move with me," he breathed into her mouth, then kissed her fully. He tasted awful, and, instinctively, she tried to turn her head away, despite understanding what charade he was playing. She forced her hands to release their vice-like grip on his arms, to instead trail her fingers up his shoulders and to the nape of his neck, while tentatively allowing her body to follow his lead; raising her hips to meet the illusion of his thrusts. Embarrassment was pushed aside as necessity took the reins of her rationality, and she could almost imagine that she was viewing this spectacle unfold from a distance, rather than experiencing it at the heart of it.

Peripherally, she saw the guards' feet through her slit lids, not three yards away, and distantly heard them remarking on the show being provided for them. Wishing to add to the farce in hopes that they'd deem them as harmless and be on their way, Molly let slip out a breathy moan. Her feet met the leafy floor decisively, as she arched her back sensuously. She'd never been intimate with a man before, having been nineteen (and a good Catholic girl) when she'd first arrived in this time, but she knew the generic routine. Sex-ed and quiet late night sessions in her room with nothing more than a finger and fantasies (perhaps not altogether a good Catholic girl) had helped her understand certain aspects.

He kissed her again, and this time she responded, ignoring his foul breath and dirty beard. Their movements were equally becoming more enthusiastic, and she was certain the Viking was taking advantage of the situation, but noted that he wasn't actually forcing her to have sex with him. The quiet part of her brain, still capable of stringing thoughts together, wondered how he was not groaning in pain at the friction forced upon his wound. Then it occurred to her that what she took for sounds of false pleasure were really a mask for the reverse.

It felt an age of this play-acting, and Molly began to think that perhaps they were putting too good of a show on if the guards' continued attention was anything to go by. She was unable to escape the stench of the Viking - even when his mouth left hers to follow a new trail along her jaw and down her neck – and wanted nothing more than to push him off, stomp up to the lascivious guards and use their own swords against them. The sudden thought of violence, however, brought the sharp memory of seeing Emory's guts spilling out, his life's blood staining the ground and splattering her face. Of his blood now being forever worked into the fabric of her dress by the continuous drag of the Viking's body across hers.

He seemed to sense her sudden distress a mere second before her body convulsed, the tingling strain just beneath the surface of her skin; her pupils blown wide not from desire, but from horror. Before she could act, his mouth was on hers once more.

"Stay with me," he barely whispered past her lips, stifling a cry that had made it halfway up her throat. Their eyes met, and a silent tear slid down the side of her temple and into her hair. With the slightest nod to indicate understanding, Molly closed her eyes and sent herself to a place very far away.

"Well, here, that's no fair. He's had his time with the whore and let's see her favors shared, is what I say," the first guard spoke, shattering Molly's endeavors of mind over matter.

"You there," the second guard joined. The Viking's movement's began to slow, though he did not show any other signs of being aware of the interlopers. "Are you aware that you are on the land of Lord Cyneric?" the second guard continued.

"Well? Are you?" he pressed, when he received no response. He poked the Viking in the back with something. Molly felt him tense up as he slowed completely and gave her a meaningful look. Their jig was up. She noticed how he blocked her face from them by the bulk of his head and shoulders, and knew it was in case they should recognize her.

"Your name and business, rogue?" It was the guard who'd displayed more loyalty to Emory who spoke, and clearly would not be satisfied until answered. His fellow sniggered, however, and answered before the Viking had the chance to.

"I think it's plainly obvious what his business is. And I say as he's had his fun, and should be willing for others to have their pleasures," he said. And with a resumed tramp of heavy feet, he meant to close the distance and likely fling the Viking off of Molly.

With their noses already touching, sharing their mingled breaths, he relayed his final order.

"Do not come until I call for you."

She gazed at him confused, torn between wanting to understand what he was saying, the threatening approach of the lustful guard, and the continued interrogation of the self-important bastard who wouldn't shut up.

"Come now, we haven't all day. Have you seen – "

With the speed of a striking snake, the Viking rolled Molly aside so that she fell neatly to the bottom of the hollow, away from the lightening fast engagement that claimed two more lives of her master's guards. With no thought or plan, Molly rose from her tumble on unsteady feet and ran, slipping on the slime and mildew of a carpet of leaves before gaining traction and darting frantically between the trees. She dare not look back for fear of witnessing further violence, or worse – swift pursuit. Presently she didn't know who she feared most, but with the taste of the Viking in her mouth and the echo of his body atop her and between her legs she was inclined to think that her true terror was being recaptured by him once more.

' _Third time's a charm,_ ' a wicked voice sing-songed in her head.

She was blind to any goal, save perhaps escaping these woods. One bounding step followed the next, and the next, and the next, and so it continued until her breathing was short and her legs burned. Adrenaline coursed through her veins, however, and she felt that she could sprint her way to freedom if it took eternity to do so. Caution was thrown to the wind as she crashed through the underbrush, running from her predators as a rabbit flees from pursuing hounds. And very soon after, she knew she was being pursued. The unmistakable drum of hoof beats reached her ears.

A last, desperate, spurt of energy propelled her like a shot, and she wove through the labyrinthine trees with little care for the scrapes and scratches that etched her skin from the prickly twigs she passed. Alas, her pursuer was not easily lost, and ere she could redirect her course, the Viking, mounted on a steed of her master's, cut off her escape by using himself and the horse as a barrier.

Molly caught herself before she ran into the black destrier, her eyes traveling up once to meet the Viking's as she gasped for air. His expression betrayed no oncoming retribution for having disobeyed him; in fact, he sat almost calmly in the saddle, his arms crossed easily over the pommel. Yet, Molly knew his focus rested solely on her. She sensed it by the way he masked it.

"You are a fast runner," he commented, almost nonchalantly. Molly did not answer. Instead, she took advantage of taking full breaths as she discreetly transferred her weight from one leg to the other, slowly edging her way backwards. Her eyes remained on the Viking, warily anticipating what next he might try. He looked a mess, incongruously seated on the fine horse while he himself a picture of bloody violence.

"You did well…back there," he said, looking past her, as if seeing the scene they had just departed.

"I had little choice," she spat.

His eyes met hers. "You would rather return then to your castle where you fear death awaits you?"

"No," she bit out through a tight-lipped frown. "No, but I – "

"What?" he prompted when she cut herself off. She looked over her shoulder, as if expecting to see a sudden door labeled, 'Escape Route'. Only the woods stared back at her, however, and her movements grew more restless. She no longer tried to hide her attempts of retreat, as she glanced around, taking greater strides backwards. The Viking dismounted the horse, his leg swinging over the neck of the destrier. His landing was accompanied by a wince, but other than that he showed no outward sign of his pain.

Molly jumped slightly, her fists clenching by her sides.

"Haven't we been here before," she asked rhetorically.

"You would not make it one night on your own," he said, his calm demeanor masking his measured steps. "Between the soldiers and the harsh wilderness you would either be caught or dead before the following morning. Is my company not a better alternative?"

Molly's restlessness subsided at his words, at the truth she heard in them. Her retreat stilled as her eyes gazed sightlessly at the leafy floor. Absently, she became aware that the Viking now stood before her, his presence a paradox of her blink-of-an-eye altered fortunes, and now the only anchor that she could cling to in order to weather the storm he'd created. Slowly, she brought her eyes up to stare him directly in the face.

"And why do you even care what becomes of me? I seem only to ever be prey to you."

He considered her a moment, his eyes boring into hers as if attempting to read a hidden message he was certain would be written there for him. With a grunt, he dipped his hand beneath the band of his trousers, rummaged for a second before pulling out a book. Molly looked on with a deep crease between her brows, her lip curling up in disgust at his hiding place for whatever he had brought forth.

"I keep it with me always so that should I ever meet someone who can read it, I may learn its secrets," he told her candidly. She eyed the book with an ounce more interest, noting that one side was smeared with the same blood that adorned both of them. At least she hoped so, though there was no telling with a berserker. There was something peculiar to it, however, something that made her want to reach out for it.

"What is it?" she asked, keeping her gaze on it.

"Do you not recognize it?" he responded sounding surprised. She looked up then, and shook her head. "Take it."

With a barely concealed grimace, Molly had no choice but to accept it when he all but shoved it into her grasp. Taking care to use only her fingertips to handle the book, and to stay clear of the blood, she cracked it open to a random page.

The woods grew suddenly quiet, or was that merely the blood rushing to her head, pounding in her ears as a piece of her old life stared back at her. An unbidden teardrop quickly ran down the bridge of her nose, dangling on the tip for just a second before falling on the familiar pages of her journal.

All the fight left her as she was thrown back into the painful memories of first arriving in the past. Seeing the names of her friends, of their day-to-day activities in Wales, England, and finally in Scotland before the writing gave way to ominous blank pages.

Molly let the Viking guide her to the horse. She let him help her into the saddle, and she lightly held onto his middle as they set off to some unknown destination. Feeling drained physically, emotionally, and with her surge of adrenaline now depleted, she hesitated only a second before resting her head on his back and closing her eyes; flashes of her own writing lighting up behind her eyelids.

She did not trust him, yet she found that she did not fear his physically harming her. His returning her journal had pulled him away from being that phantom she had viewed him as for so long.

With yet another twist of fate, she found herself in the care of a man she had escaped in the most dramatic of circumstances six years prior, and all she could think about was how happy she was to be holding her diary, propped as it was between her stomach and his back.

Breaking the silence, she had only one thing more to say before letting drowsiness overwhelm her.

"I can't believe you kept it in your trousers," she mumbled into his back.

Even if her eyes had been open, she would've missed the satisfied smile that cracked the mud and blood on the Viking's face.


	3. Resigned, but not Hopeless

Ragnar mayn't have known the land intimately, but he knew that where there was a manor, a hamlet would be nestled nearby. It was there that they would find the supplies needed. The woman, Molly – he silently tested the feel of her name on his tongue – had made it clear that she had some preliminary knowledge in how to treat his wounds. After extensive fighting and some rather enjoyable acts, regardless of their authenticity (the taste of berries still sweetened his mouth), the gash he had sustained in battle was lancing pain through his leg. He would soon be unable to walk on it without losing every last ounce of breath. Even riding made him grit his teeth.

When asked, Molly confirmed his theory of a nearby village, relaying a quick route ere interrupting herself.

"You don't mean to attack them, do you?"

As best he could, he spared a quizzical glance over his shoulder at the ridiculous assumption.

"If you think me capable of executing a one-man assault in my current state I fear you either give too much credence to my skill or believe me to be a fool."

Behind him, she mumbled something unintelligible to his ears. Then she said a little louder and in a tongue recognizable to him, "they _are_ only farmers after all."

"You disabuse the farmers when you do not know them. Do not be so quick to underestimate farmers' capabilities."

"I disabuse the farmers _because_ I know them," she returned. "They are pitiful to watch when tax season is due."

"Your master," Ragnar began, "he is unkind to his tenants?"

"Extremely so," she answered immediately. "His mother was better, but she died two years ago. But I no longer have a master," she added, her tone full of derision and aimed at the back of his head. Ragnar indulged in a brief grin.

"If it is disagreeable for you to be without a master - I can be yours."

"No you cannot!" and her arms withdrew from around his waist, giving him a rough shove to the back, causing him to wince. "And don't you dare even think it!" Her tone was full of feeling as he felt her hands settle behind him, refusing to once more embrace him. He did not smile again, though his demeanor suggested amusement rather than the reverse.

After a time, Ragnar returned to their original point.

"I was a farmer."

Silence followed this statement until Molly responded with a curt, "really," indicative of acknowledging what he said without possessing interest.

"When I think of it, it seems now to belong to another life."

While his goal was to draw her out, he could not help getting caught up in those not-too-distant memories of a simpler time when his only responsibility was for himself, his modest land, and any trouble Rollo might have gotten into.

Unknown to him, the object of his current interests was now fully listening to him as his words struck her with familiarity. The past was another life that belonged to another person; more care-free and ignorant of what would become of them.

"You say nothing to this?" Ragnar questioned, returning to the present. "I thought you would scoff or laugh or make one of those unintelligible sounds women are so fond of making."

She made one now in response, though, she coupled it with an answer.

"You may have been a farmer, but you are, before anything, a Northman."

"Why 'before anything'?'" he inquired, curious at her sentiment.

"Because farmers tend the land and their families; they do not seek distant shores to pillage and plunder, to rape and kill." After speaking her meaning she withdrew once more and he felt the stiffness of either fear or worry or perhaps even hatred enter her.

He could not deny that those actions named were unknown to the men of his community – of his country. But it was also true that what those actions provided in the long-term was future prosperity for his people and the beginnings of a security gained in the ever-vast and changing world. A foreigner's ignorance could be excused. As it was, further talking was proving to be less and less enjoyable while stabs of pain cut him to the bone with every other stride of the horse.

Therefore, they both of them remained ensconced in their own thoughts for the remainder of their flight through the woods. Once or twice they were forced to be still or pick around a less open path to avoid the approaching sound of a mounted guard, but other than a few close encounters they detangled from the low branches and, at times, unruly bush unmolested.

She would tend to him, and then he would find the way back to his camp. A string of well-aimed curses to be delivered to Horik circulated his mind, indulging in the foulest of insults simply because he knew he would never be able to use them and survive. His approach would have to be one of patience and cunning. He sniffed, swallowing back blood and mucus. It was nothing foreign to his nature. Had he not done the very same with Haraldson?

Behind him, Molly grumbled something.

She would be coming with him to the camp. And then…

He wasn't certain.

He could try to tie her up again, though he suspected that she would be sensitive to any motions towards that and would slip away before he had the chance of hauling her pretty behind once more onto the boat. What a state of fury she would be in. In spite of his dark thoughts, he smiled at the image it conjured of her rich, long hair flying madly about her head, of her color rising with exertion.

Ragnar was not yet certain of how he would do it, but he was certain of wanting her. That was enough. Her words returned to him: 'pillage and plunder, to rape and kill.' It was what she expected from him, he realized. What she did not expect, however, was that his interest in her, while assuredly charmed by her physiognomy, was of a somewhat wholesome nature. Somewhat.

He no longer felt her book against his back; that item that had become something akin to a cumbersome talisman that he refused to part with. Now returned to its key, and the ultimate fountain that could spurt forth answers to questions that had had the chance to grow and multiply with the time given it, the book's value was diminished only by its true owner. But only so long as he _had_ the true owner.

"Give me your book," Ragnar said without preamble. They had come to the eaves of the forest and could now see the quaint hamlet Molly had directed them to. It sat nestled in the lap of a small valley – a poor location if they ever needed to defend themselves, Ragnar automatically considered.

"No. Why?" She clutched it to her chest.

"There is something I would ask you about it."

"Ask me now," she persisted, unrelenting.

With a huff of impatience and a grunt of pain, he turned to look at her over his shoulder.

"Consider that your book has been in my care this past half decade," he pointed out. "In your own presence are you so unwilling to let me handle its pages?"

He caught her eye, challenging her.

With a huff of her own, she exclaimed, "fine! _Take the journal! Ask your questions. Kidnap me a third time, why don't you!_ " Though, most of this was said in her own language, her general ire was felt without need of translation.

He accepted the book thrust into his lap, albeit with a small hiss of pain at her force, and then said, "thank you. Now off you go."

"I beg your pardon?" She canted her head at the shooing motion he was making with his hand. Before she could wonder at his apparent changeability, he elaborated.

"Your neat little basket is not with us, yet we are still in need of the contents it held. That hamlet is our new basket. And this," he grasped the book, "is my insurance."

"Your insurance? For what?"

"For your return."

He saw her quick comprehension and was glad for it. The pain was growing to an unbearable level, making his breathing a tricky accomplishment.

"I have not any money," she said at once. "And I cannot go to them like this," she added, looking down at her own bloodied state.

"I have no money either, and I am in an even worse state than you."

After a heart beat's pause, she stated, "you mean me to steal what we need, don't you."

When his answer was a curled lip, she continued.

"And on my own! What if I am caught? Your security will mean nothing then."

"And if we ride in together do you suppose none will recognize me for what I am, and this beast for what he is, and come to the conclusion that we are unlikely friends?"

She sat silently behind him for several seconds before abruptly pushing away from him with a sound of disgust. She spat something out at him in her own language as she swung her leg over and landed with a thump beside the horse.

"Don't forget to find yourself something pretty," he couldn't help calling after her. Her response was a hand gesture with her middle finger extended. He did not know its significance, but he felt confident in hazarding a guess.

* * *

It was perhaps the worst possible time to sneak around a hamlet in bloodied clothes and with the intent of thievery. The sun was full-up, the women were at work in their homes and the men busy in the fields or walking the many by-ways of little footpaths. Molly thought initially that she might turn her gown inside out, but a quick look told her that the rusting brown of the blood had soaked through to her chemise and had even tainted her skin.

With the constant evidence of recent violence etched upon her person, an impression of color on her very skin, Molly walked without the sense of walking. The weakness in her legs did not inhibit her progress, but it did give the feeling of numbness. She wouldn't have known she was walking had she been devoid of her senses. As it was, those senses were at an absolute opposite of what they had been immediately following Emory's death and her and the Viking's mad dash to the forest. She was hyper aware of every little sight and sound; every movement that turned out to be only the wind caressing a bush or an animal prowling about on its own business.

She made deliberate strides towards the back of the houses, ducking around doors and windows, and all the while feeling a perverse sense of equal anger and amusement. It had never been a thought that this day would see her sneaking around as a pantomime spy, rigged up in the clothes of a time she formerly would have only considered wearing for Halloween or RenFests. She oddly felt a mixture of Inspector Clausue and Maid Marion within her.

Domestic humming was on the air and the squeal of a child startled her by its suddenness. It was not a squeal of discovery, but simply a child's delight of having a voice and using it. There was no line of helpfully strung laundry as there usually is in those films catering towards thieves with a conscious. Nor was there a bowl of milk or a husk of bread on the windowsill that she might easily snatch. The likelihood of alcohol was near to none.

Molly sighed, bracing her back against the outer wall of the croft.

Was her journal truly this important to her? Why did she not simply abandon the Viking to his fate and discover a new one for herself?

_'Because I know that his words were true – I wouldn't last a single night on my own. Not this time.'_

Before, the danger had gone with the Viking's on their ship. Presently, the guards of her former employer were symbiotic with the land; they knew its personality and, in return, it would sustain them. If only she hadn't called out that warning to the Viking as he had battled Emory. If only she had not let herself be dragged away by the very man who had given her some of her worst nightmares, waking her in cold sweats. If only she had not submitted to his insane idea of false love-making, only to be the witness of two more murders involving the security of her former employer's.

If only, if only, if only…

If only they had kept hold of that damned basket!

Taking a breath, she closed her eyes, psyching her mind in preparation of the crimes her body was about to commit. Momentary guilt crept on her that her worry stemmed more from the fear of getting caught than the act itself – and what it would mean to those she took from. What if this was their only supper? Their last pale of milk?

Too many considerations and not enough hours in the day. Thinking would be her downfall, therefore, she closed the door on that strain of morals temporarily and gave herself to the mantra of 'action'.

The humming drifted in and out of hearing, sometimes near, sometimes further. It was during one of the humming's absences that Molly stole her resolve and crept into the back door of the small croft. All at once, she could see nothing as the space was considerably darker than the brilliant day outside. The humming remained in the only other room of the home, however, so Molly did her best to sidle out of the doorjamb so as not to be haloed by its light. Within a few seconds her eyes adjusted and she could see that the mother was in the midst of preparing a meal; formed dough sat on the work table, flour spread around its surface and the smell of yeast in the air.

The humming flourished into abrupt singing of questionable talent, easily startling Molly in her current state. She froze where she was, an out-stretched hand hovering over a small clay cauldron. The singing continued, unabashed and contained in that second room. Molly breathed out and finished grabbing the cauldron. It was chipped and worn and by the looks of it, not much used if the layer of dust was any story to go by.

Now in possession of her first steal, the rest came a little easier. Food, clothes, milk if there was any; that was her grocery list. Over and over she repeated it until she had collected them all and was on the verge of departing with the stealth of an alley-cat when a pair of eyes arrested her escape. She and the woman were both frozen, yet those eyes and their inevitable descent to the blood stain on Molly's gown, was the breaking of the spell. Those lungs, well practiced in singing ditties and country love songs, had little difficulty in raising the alarm with an ear-shattering scream as she came at Molly with whatever she had in her hand.

Practically electrified into motion, Molly ducked out of the way, awkwardly clutching all her goods to her chest and ran for the door. Her pace did not relent as she ran flat out across the land she had moments before been creeping down. Sounds of a village coming alive with panic and distress spurred her faster, though the incline of the hill snatched at her breath. She was practically doubled over by the time she reached the summit and the welcoming protection of the forest.

Momentarily caught up in prey mentality, she abandoned the Viking's instructions of meeting him past the second spruce that crowned the lip of the hill, a large tree that provided sufficient cover, and ran straight for the immediate cover that the overlapping trees offered.

Fortunately for her the Viking had been waiting for her the moment he heard the first scream. The sound of pounding hooves reached Molly and, recognizing it – as well as the shout of her name – the flight left her. She slowed to a stop and teetering towards a tree so that her weight might be taken as she regained breath and balance.

The Viking rode up to her, the mar of pain clear on his features, though his next words a sign of his natural humor.

"I am impressed. You managed to rouse the entire hamlet with your glare and another's blood alone. Most shield-maidens are not so successful their first time."

That very glare showed itself now, peeking through her eyelashes and up at the mounted man she seemed unable to shake.

**. . .**

"Would you hold still? I've barely even touched you yet," Molly entreated with utmost exasperation. The clay cauldron now had meaning in its inanimate life, as it was filled nearly to the brim with stream water and placed cleverly over designed sticks and branches to hang over a fire. It was a small fire, though the smoke still took some persuasion in exiting out the shallow cave's entrance.

Cave was perhaps a generous word for Molly and the Viking's current hiding place; it was more an alcove in the rock. Regardless of its proper term, it was a suitable declivity that had been discovered by Molly many years prior. A mere slip of an entrance that appeared non-existent when looking directly at it, but which had the width to accommodate a broad-shouldered Viking. It did not, however, have the space to entertain the horse they had commandeered. Commandeered and reluctantly returned. They could not have his presence outside the rocky cliff-face giving away _their_ presence; therefore a hard slap to the stallion's rear had sent him galloping off through the trees.

"Your hands are cold," the Viking complained. He was laid flat at Molly's command, one of his smaller knives in her hand as she tore away at the fabric around his leg. His propensity for cracks and half-smiles was causing an ache in her jaw for all the times she grit her teeth. Only he could draw this reaction from her. If it had been any other, in any other time, after any other experience she knew she would not be this sour – it was not her nature.

The trauma of the afternoon's events had receded somewhat during her 'reconnaissance' mission; she'd had a goal, an aim that distracted other thoughts from fermenting. Before that, the return of her journal had been like a sudden beam of sunlight that no cloud could dampen for the brief moments of happiness it brought. But then the facts of her situation returned; etched in vivid detail as each came to the forefront of her mind.

"Shall I stick your leg in the fire, then? It will surely . . ." she intended to say 'cauterize' but knew not the term for it in her second language. Instead, she clamped her mouth and redoubled her focus on clearing away any obstructions around the wound - her jaw tight.

Along with the clothes she'd relieved the singing woman of, Molly had also snatched up a random cotton sheet. Presently it lay in torn strips, each awaiting their turn for a dip into the boiling water, while those already treated to the sauna were draped over a long branch, drying. Molly took one now, wringing out the excess water before applying its purity to the coating of dried blood. The Viking hissed again but was ignored as she pressed gently around the wound, teasing flakes and grime away. Slowly and with the help of the many cotton strips, Molly made progress in distinguishing between whole flesh and the clean line of tortured skin. It was not as deep as she'd anticipated, though its length was daunting. Stretching from just below his groin, it curved in a graceful arc until just reaching the side of his knee.

As she worked further up his leg, her eyes darted periodically to see where his were looking. She was very aware of his partial nudity and the fact that her hands were inching closer to a personal area on any human. Her disquiet easily took form as memory of the Viking between her legs came willingly to taunt her; his kissing her in a way she'd never been kissed before, and the fear that he might expect more.

For his part, he remained mostly silent; watching her work or fixing his gaze to random points of the cave's ceiling. It was easy to tell that he was visibly exhausted. The weight of the day showed in every inch of his haggard form. Molly was then reminded that she only knew the contours of his day from the point of reunion. The events preceding that meeting (specifically why he was injured to begin with) were still a mystery to her.

Seeing him as he was now - tired, _quiet_ , though still marred by the scars of the day — the mud and blood that seemed a staple to his appearance — only confused her vision of him. It was a contradiction to see this frightening image of violence succumb to the weaknesses that afflicted mortal men; which in turn forced the admission that he was nothing more than a man. The fear of his violating her was real . . . yet, as she looked down at him in the fickle light of the small fire, a small voice in her head felt confident against that supposition. She couldn't say why or that she even wanted to trust this voice in her head, but the grime that coated him notwithstanding, Molly almost considered him to appear vulnerable. She found it both reassuring and unnerving to view him this way. Despite her opinion of him - and the fact that he was the root of her current situation - he was also her only shield now.

"You are staring at me," he said, his eyes swiveling to look at her. His voice was low in his throat.

Embarrassed at being caught, she deflected and asked, "how did you get this?" She referred to the thin line of red highlighting his thigh. Once healed, it would be only a faint scar.

"Someone mistook me for ingredients for their dinner."

She looked back up at him.

"It's fortunate they realized you were too tough to chew before choking on you," she returned, not missing a beat. "It would be a shame to suffocate on something _unpleasant_."

"Fortunate for me to be tended so _nicely_ ," he returned, grinning. His first since she'd begun her treatment. She turned her gaze back to his leg.

"Where is that from? You didn't have it earlier?" he asked.

The Viking was looking at her face, nodding his chin in her direction. His arms were clearly too exhausted to function.

"What are you talking about?"

"A scratch. On your face. You did not have it this afternoon."

Molly straightened up and brought a hand to her left cheek then her right where she felt a thin line raised above her skin. With her fingers she traced the scratch across her cheekbone, feeling dry bumpiness and seeing no blood when she pulled her hand away.

"It's nothing. I must have gotten it in the forest."

She suddenly remembered exactly when she got it.

_T_ _he sound of her breathing clouding her mind; the leaves underfoot as she worked to get away; there was no escape, even as her legs sprinted past all hopes of expectations towards the illusion of freedom. The low branch struck her face, whipping past her as she flew by, not pausing for a moment as she ran from the Viking — his taste still potent in her mouth._

"It is not so bad, I think. The blood made it appear far worse than it was. It's as well that you likely will not need stitches for I lack the skill for such an operation," she said, turning back to his wound with methodical intent. With a will, she shut the events of the afternoon out of her mind. Hysteria was only a thought away afterall.

"Stitches? You thought to sew me up like a garment?"

"Not quite," Molly said, amused in spite of herself at his assumption. "But very like. Had the cut gone deeper, the skin would have needed help in healing back together. Still, I need to – to . . . Oh! There is no word for it! I need to clean it so that . . . so that it can heal with cleanness." Her frustration was apparent as more words failed her. Though, that frustration quickly turned to another train of thought as she suddenly considered that boiled water alone would not be able to enter his wound to disinfect it. She'd burn him terribly and cause more problems than what they were already dealing with. What she really needed was alcohol. Pure, straightforward alcohol. It would sting him most assuredly but the risk of infection would be considerably lower.

"If your furrowed brow is an indication of your thoughts," the Viking began, distracting her from her worries, "you are either meaning to translate an uncooperative word or there is more to be said about my leg that you wish not to share."

"It's neither actually – or, well, mayhap there is some truth to the latter. I need alcohol – for your leg. Not to drink."

"I remember you said. What is its purpose?"

"It cleans; ridding the wound of . . . _germs_ , thus stopping _infection_ and probable amputation due to _gangrene_ ," she relayed, falling back on English words in her impatience. He watched her with a studied air. "Do not ask me to translate, I don't have the words. What's important is that alcohol is needed and we have none," she finished.

"I have survived worse than this. I will likely manage without your medicine," he said unconcerned.

Molly looked him over once more before turning her head – done with him for the present. Mindful of the fire, she situated herself towards the entrance of the cave and looked out. Night had fallen and the cool breeze that greeted her warmed cheeks refreshed her spirits.

There was much to think about . . . and yet, she wanted nothing more than to embrace a blank state of mind and let all the kinks of the moment sort themselves out. She was beyond the point of reasoning with herself over the wisdom of helping this Viking. She had made her decision – or rather, it had been made for her. She could not imagine returning to that terrifying existence of not knowing whose goodwill she could trust as she had done upon being received into her former Mistress' employ. The Viking certainly was not one she could trust, but he was still the lesser of two evils.

At least she hoped it was so.

Something told her it was so.

Molly looked back at him to see if she could still see the horrible monster that had suffered exaggerated villainy through her imagination. He was asleep, or perhaps only his eyes were closed. His breath came evenly; his clothed chest rising and falling, creating mountains and valleys of shadows that shifted with each inhale. He was calm.

It surprised her to recognize the man in the nightmare, but so it was.

Again he had found her, appearing behind her and with that stupid cock-eyed grin that expressed much more than simple mirth. Was it fate that had drawn them together, she wondered. Fate was a thing far easier to believe in and turn to after having passed through the veils of time, and it was to that nuanced entity she reserved most of her questions. Was the Viking's reappearance perhaps symmetry of her experiences these past six years? Was his presence - their meeting - the precursor to a miraculous return home?

Inevitably, thoughts turned towards the hypothetical and scenarios began playing out in Molly's mind's eye. She envisioned reuniting with her family and her friends; of what their reactions would be and what possible excuse she could give for having been missing for more than half a decade. As she ran down the list of plausible reasons and coming up with the grand total of nil, the hopelessness of her fate struck her anew. It was one thing to want something beyond belief, another to achieve that self-made utopia. She may return one day, to her time and her people – but there was no going back.

"Why are you crying?" his voice came out of the quiet, breaking her musings, though, he spoke barely above a whisper. In reaction, she hastily wiped her face and denied the accusation.

"You may have fooled me had you not thoroughly rubbed away the evidence; the light is not so good so I may have been persuaded that it was not tears in your eyes, but a natural brightness."

"Does it matter that I was crying?"

"I thought I would ask," he shrugged, "you have been taking care of me. I would not like to think that the strain has emotionally exhausted you."

Molly stared at him, mouth unsure of a forthcoming answer to his ridiculous statement, when suddenly, the purest sound escaped her. She laughed.

"That is an improvement to your scowling," he remarked.

Ignoring him, she clasped her hands over her face, resting her knuckles against her bent knees and let the gentle chuckles waver between pent up hysterics. A giggle here, a masked sob there; it was the release that was coming all day - since the moment she had witnessed Emory's murder.

"Regardless of your health, an acquaintance with you is likely to exhaust anybody," she resumed after a brief time; her voice thick.

"I have heard it said," he smiled. She noticed that there was no double meaning in the current expression.

Prompted by the rawness of the moment, she asked, "what do you want with me?"

His smile broadened before assuming a more sober air. Bringing her journal forth, he considered the green leather of its binding as if viewing it for the first time. Turning it in his hands, his eyes met hers and held the contact.

"Out of all my . . . _visits_ to this land I have never encountered a random meeting. I once met the brother of King Aelle. It was not a good introduction for him," his tone possessed a matter-of-factness that attempted to disguise itself with an amount of playfulness. It only served to engage the listener the more, and Molly couldn't help feeling intrigued.

"Yet, the meeting itself held purpose. We received our ransom. We also humiliated the King. In my heart I know that there are yet more meetings to be had with that King; whether by myself or with a horde of men at my disposal. It is the nature of Fate is it not? Those we are destined to have in our lives, weaving in and out of our tale, for good or ill. We will meet them . . . and sometimes we will meet them again."

His gaze held hers strongly now.

"It is destiny that we have met again," he said quietly, "for, as I know of unfinished business with Aelle, I have known that you are my key to something new. You were a woman from another land when first we met; with raiment foreign to the peoples of my lands and to the lands of the Christians; with mysterious treasures and a book of fine quality containing a script illegible to all – including my monk.  
You ask of me what I want with you, and I will tell you – I want to know what you know. I would have it all."

Molly did not shy away from his gaze as an ensuing silence fell between them. The space they occupied in that small cave needed a moment of its own ere they began speaking again. The snap and crack of the fire was enough to fill the void at present as each felt a fresh wall of hostility evaporate in the stuffy space.

Slowly, Molly reached a hand out, wordlessly asking for her journal. The Viking didn't hesitate in returning it once more.

It was a Celtic design on the cover, bought specifically in anticipation for her trip to the UK. She traced the Celtic knots and whorls, toying with the pages between as she psyched herself up for another glimpse of a life forever lost to her.

Opening to a random page she read the entry. The lines grew blurry as tears clouded her vision, but she would not blink lest the salty tear-drop smudge her writing. She managed a few paragraphs before decisively shutting the journal and wiping her eyes. She looked up to see that the Viking was watching her.

"What you ask of me is . . . personal," Molly admitted. Her voice was hushed. "What you call a book is a _journal_ , my _journal_. It is my writing in these pages."

The Viking was surprised.

"And what is a – a _gornull_ that women have the ability to write in them. What _is_ written in them?"

"It is a place to record the events of a day; of the events of a certain time."

"Why? What is the point of that?" he continued to search.

Molly stared at him, amazed at his genuine ignorance of why such a practice would be beneficial.

"For memory," she explained. The Viking still did not look convinced of its usefulness.

"So a bunch of women are daily writing down the mundane routine of their duties and chores – "

"Men _and_ women; and it is more than simply documenting the mundane. It captures the moments shared with people, of emotions and places. It is a thing to look back on when you are old and grey and share with your children and grandchildren."

"They are your stories then?" he concluded, grasping at an explanation that made sense to him. He seemed eager now.

"Yes. They are stories – sometimes badly told," she admitted, thinking of her own dismal writing, "but stories nonetheless."

"Will you read them to me?" he asked, sounding hopeful. She hesitated.

"No. I don't know. Not right now, at least," she wavered. She was unsure of the rapid progress in their communications and felt the impulse to revert to terms of antipathy and suspicion.

"You need rest and I – " she sighed. "I need to think."

She said no more to the Viking that night, and he in turn followed her instructions. The cave eventually filled with soft snores as weariness carried the Viking towards the regenerative sleep he had required hours prior. Molly did not watch him, but she could not help but wait for that inhale every time he mumbled out an exhale through parted lips. She feared he would die in the night and leave her defenseless in, what was now, enemy territory.

The quiet night opened to her, stilling the ticking clock of Time in an illusion of gained hours in which to contemplate her new circumstances. Only the fire was an indication of movement during the dead of night when any tint of dawn would be impossible to disturb her ruminations.

Alcohol and death. Those were her present concerns. They existed in the immediacy of unraveling events that she perhaps had the power to prevent. Sentiments and hopeful thoughts could be appreciated only in the peripheral at present.

The consequences of his death implied various outcomes. Relying on previous information, Molly assumed that he must have been separated from his brethren, for she doubted he had made it all the way to Wessex on his own. Her concern lay not in returning his body to his kin, but in avoiding those kin should he perish. She must also take into consideration the as-of-yet nameless foe the Viking had engaged with before their meeting. It was also true that she could not know how long her former master would pursue the hunt, and if she was not careful she might become the easily caught prey between three fierce forces. The only difference of that scenario should the Viking live would be the assumed protection he would extend over her should they make it to his Viking friends.

 _'But then,'_ Molly continued voicelessly, pursing her lips and raising her eyebrows, _'I would have to – again – find a way to escape him.'_

The fear of the unknown and the half-guessed in regards to being taken to his lands raised a series of warning bells should he try to trick her onto a boat. Not least due to her own superstition of not leaving these shores. It was on this island that the doorway had opened for her unwilling passage. It was, therefore, _this_ island that she must remain should that doorway ever open for her again.

Looking over her shoulder, Molly watched him. The flickering light cast by the diminishing fire nearly concealed the tattoos she'd earlier noticed on the sides of his shaved head, making the color appear as the first growth of hair after a buzz cut. He had aged since their first encounter. She remembered his hair being thicker atop his scalp and his beard not so long. There was some grey there too, and momentarily she wondered how old he was.

Her eyes traveled down towards his wound. Its redness had not faded, nor did she expect it to. Of course there was a possibility that it would not get infected, though, she felt that was a big 'if'. Creeping slowly towards the fore of her mind, an idea was formulating into an impulsive sketch of a plan.

The gamekeeper kept a still near abouts. The bluff they sheltered at the base of was south of the manor. Molly knew the gamekeeper preferred height for his precious still; she had once come across it and was nearly chased away by his shouts and some farming implement she hadn't had the time to inspect.

Turning her gaze back to the outside world, she craned her head to look up at the pitch night. It was unlikely that he would be there at this time. She was also encouraged by the lack of moonlight that would have highlighted her progress to any who may have been watching.

Reclining back into herself, Molly huddled her knees close to her chest, resting her brow against them. It was a risk. Was she willing to go _that_ far in order to maintain her shield? She looked back at him, gritting her teeth, though not in anger or annoyance directed at him. It was a reflexive action against the fear of cowardice.

She did not like him; she knew plainly that her only interest in caring for him was selfish. Yet there was that spark of humanity that had been instilled in her through her religion. Sanctity for life. Unrelated to her own desires, his death was not something she craved. And if their second meeting was truly Fate she would never forgive herself for remaining passive when she had the power to act.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would just like to thank all of you who have taken the time to read this story. It's great fun to write it and very satisfying to share this idea that's been in my head for so long. The dialogue between Ragnar and Molly are my favorite to write.
> 
> My intention is to get the fourth chapter up in two weeks. It was complete, but upon editing it I wasn't keen on the pacing and felt that certain scenes were happening prematurely. I've already begun work on fixing it up; it needs only a few more connecting scenes to tie in with what I already have written (though a large portion of chapter four is now being relegated to chapter five). It is easy to say that only a few more scenes need to be written, but that doesn't account for everyday life intervening. Late July I learned that I needed to move! I will do my best to be as consistent with updates, but if I'm late just know that I spent too much of my childhood not finishing projects to make a big enough impact in my young adult life to ensure that I do.
> 
> Take care!


	4. Reconciling Two Halves

He woke before dawn. The chorus of birds – most likely cousins to those in Kattegat – trilled their welcome to the new day, insistent on those lazy creatures of the ground to follow in their example. Ragnar imagined a fitted arrow being released in order to quell their exuberance. He grimaced in satisfaction at the groggy imagery.

  
His senses were somewhat sluggish this morning; his eyes refused to open, while his limbs felt pulled by a dreadful weight to remain motionless. The pain in his leg was joined by aching muscles and joints, previously ignored. The consequence of remaining still for so many hours left him feeling stiff and sore.

  
Groaning, he fought against those weaknesses in order to rub the sleep from his eyes. The cave was still dark. He noted it absently as he stared up at the ceiling, blinking further grogginess out of his eyes. Sighing, he began moving his head. The hard floor had extended its use to the point of being repellent, and all that Ragnar wished to do now was be away from it. With stubborn grit he rose in stages, using the narrow walls as a crutch, while leaning his weight on his right leg. He clung to the wall, catching his breath and letting his body acclimatize to his sudden ascension.

  
Throughout this struggle, Ragnar noticed his being alone. The spot at the mouth of the cave, where Molly had sat as he’d drifted off to sleep, showed no signs of her. Nor did she appear anywhere else in their minuscule shelter. Her _gornull_ \- book; it was far easier for him to pronounce - however, was propped up against the wall. Was that her way of telling him that she was coming back?

  
But where had she gone?

  
As quick as he could, he rifled through the few clothes they’d taken and dressed himself.

  
He did not think her likely to betray him. She would have wasted her own time the previous day if she ultimately meant to give him away. Still he did not like the uncertainty of waiting in a space that cornered him like prey. Snatching up her book with a grunt, Ragnar made it not even two steps out of the cave ere a sharp voice reprimanded him.

  
“What are you doing?!” Molly hissed, clearly attempting to keep her voice low. She was suddenly at his left, appearing from the shadow and mist of the trees as if her form had not existed prior to his eyes locking on her. The finicky light of the gloaming hours enhanced the vision of her feyness; folk legends belonging to this land. He watched her approach, noticing that she limped slightly, though it did not detract from her reflective eyes or her hair, now loose and flowing. Long and rich it was, and contrasting against her fair skin as well as the white morning.

  
“Busy night?” he asked by way of greeting.

  
“I ran into a tree in the pitch black and dropped a partially full barrel on my foot. So, yes, I have had a busy night.”

  
“Is it often your practice to spar with trees in the dead of night and make enemies of barrels?” Ragnar questioned, vaguely entertained. They were both walking towards their cave, and he was glad of her presence that would force him to do what he would not allow himself to do on his own – rest. This brief exercise was enough for him to crave the floor he had so recently quitted. Every step shot pain down his leg, despite his care in focusing his weight on the opposite side.

  
“Not by choice,” she answered, “alas, alcohol was needed, therefore, alcohol was sought.”

  
And in the dim light of their shelter, she brandished a bottle while wearing an uncharacteristic smile; one that was made the brighter by the white flash of her teeth compared to their surroundings.

  
“The gamekeeper keeps a still atop this bluff. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it earlier, but no matter. Besides a few scrapes and bruises, I managed this steal undetected. But look! You’ve made yourself bleed again!”

  
Rather than tearing his trousers as she had the previous night, she ordered he remove them. His tunic would remain. She seemed more concerned with his modesty than he as she hinted he should cover himself with the long front of his jerkin.

  
Again he was tortured with the incessant pressure of those infernal cotton strips, swabbing away the blood he’d aggravated into reappearing.

  
“I don’t know how much this is going to hurt, only that it _will_ hurt,” Molly warned, catching his eye to convey her seriousness. She was holding the bottle, its tapered neck hovering above his wound. “Would you like to clamp your teeth on something?”

  
“ _Wait, wait, wait_ ,” he delayed frantically, “is this really necessary?” He reinforced the connection of their gaze, opening his features so that she might recognize his alarm, and pity his reticence of this procedure.

  
“There may be other ways, but I _know_ that this works. It will not last forever, but I do recommend you clamp your teeth on something.”

  
Sneering at her apparent lack of empathy he took her _gornull_ , still in his hands, and bit down on the binding. She did a double-take, blinking at his action, but he leveled a glare at her that spoke more to the point than any words could.

  
Gulping, she turned back to his leg, and after allowing a full breath to enter and exit her lungs, she tipped the bottle. A stream of agonizing spirits pummeled his wound, stinging the ribbon of exposed muscle into an aggravated numbness. His screams were muffled by the book as his teeth buried deeper and deeper into the hard cover. Sweat sprung from crevices of his body as his muscles constricted against themselves; the impulse to pull away was tempered only by his will to remain and receive the treatment, however brutal he deemed it.

  
At last she ceased pouring the foul liquid, but still it took Ragnar some time yet to relax after enduring the new pain inflicted. His breathing came as pants, the book now removed from his mouth by her hands, and he rested his head against the hard, cool stone of the cave floor.

  
“Tell me truthfully – was that really needed, or was that belated retaliation for trying to take you all those years ago?” he asked, breathless. He caught her hitched brows and wondered for a moment if she truly meant only to torture him. But the next moment she was reaching behind her for a damp cotton strip. Folding it in half, she crawled nearer his head and pressed the compress soothingly across his brow.

  
“If it gives you pause ere attempting to take me again then let it be so. I tricked you here to this cave where I would torture you until you knew not the night from the day, nor even your name.” She offered him a tentative smile then added in gentler tones. “I warned you it would hurt, but the pain is not forever.”

  
Looking up at her, he marked her beauty; her curtain of hair, rich in color, presently swept past her shoulders so that the curled wisps framing her face pronounced the shape of her cheeks and cast thin shadows across her smooth skin. Her eyes, bright with youth, reminded him of the sea or the jeweled dew that clung to the grass in the dawn. Those eyes met his, catching him in his staring.

  
“You are a kind woman,” he said, prompted by her current tenderness. She returned his stare for several seconds before removing the compress and tossing it back to the cauldron. She remained sitting near him.

  
"Perhaps,” she answered. “Or is not truer that I am a naive, stupid girl for aiding a man who has twice taken me hostage?" she put to him with raised brows.

  
"I admit to the first account,” he grinned in memory. “But surely I am you're savior in these circumstances."

"My savior!" she exclaimed, though sounding more disbelieving than angry. "How in the world are you my savior? I was well positioned before you came along. I knew my place and everyone knew I wasn't a threat. I was left to myself and had only to worry about avoiding certain of the guards.Now I am no less than a fugitive on the run with a bloody Northman! A Northman, who lest we forget, has been the cause of more nightmares in the last six years due to the fact that he hit me over the head and hauled me to his boat! So do tell me Northman, _how_ are _you_ my savior?"

It amazed him how in a moment she had the ability of expressing concern with tender touches only to be supplanted by a fiery temper that lighted her eyes into a powerful glare. After her alcoholic treatment, that glare was more than he felt capable of handling and the inclination to shoo her away was strong. Instead he opened one eye at her and said, "your security was an illusion if the fear you showed for your life was genuine. If not me, another incident might have led to hasty conclusions that put you at the end of one of their swords. Do not think that you would ever find safety in a manor existent on politics - it is a beast that eventually eats its own tail."

  
He noticed that she did not dispute him, nor did she move away once she’d finished her care of him. Her look was contemplative as she sat with her arms braced on her bent knees; her attention finally falling on the bottle still near at hand. When she moved to reach for it, Ragnar jolted forward, grasping her arm, prepared to do battle. She looked up at him surprised, and he noted the circles forming beneath her eyes he had earlier missed.

  
“Don’t you think you’ve already had your fun?” His face was close to hers as he raised his eyebrows.

  
“It’s not for you,” she said and, pulling away from him, took up the bottle.

  
To his surprise she hiked the skirts of her dress up, exposing her knees; red and angry looking with flecks of dried blood.

  
“I should’ve washed with the stream water first, but this’ll do.”

  
Without further talk, she tipped the bottle over her knees until a generous amount spilled out, dripping down her calves and thighs and over the stone floor. Ragnar watched one particular bead of liquid as it traveled the contours of her thigh, disappearing past the folds of her skirt. His eyes snapped back to her face as she let out a hiss, her face tight in a familiar expression of enduring that horrible, stinging pain.

  
“Mmm,” she groaned, then proceeded to blow out a held breath. After several seconds her eyes found his and he thought he detected a decrease in her ire.

  
“I suppose this would be a good method of retaliation.”

  
“Does that mean I am forgiven?”

  
For a moment he saw a hint of a smile tickle the corner of her mouth. “Not in the least.”

  
The bottle was dropped unceremoniously, colliding with the stone floor with a sharp echo that rattled the natural quiet. They both froze, feeling the finger of Lord Cyneric narrowing in on their location by this momentary lapse in judgment. Ragnar canted his head at Molly, giving her a look.

  
“Sorry,” she whispered, breaking the ensuing silence after several seconds. They both breathed out as their shoulders relaxed. Molly, unfortunately, draped her skirts back over her legs.

“Help me up,” Ragnar motioned.

“Why?”

“ _Just,_ ” he emphasized impatiently, “help me up.”

Rising, she straightened out her dress, prompting Ragnar to look to the heavens at the unnecessary adjustments as he waited for her to grasp his hands and haul him up. She did so with only a moments hesitation; her own small hands fairly encompassed by his large ones. He felt the contrast of his rough and calloused palms to her soft and smooth ones. He did not let go immediately as he stood before her, finding his balance. Her eyes warily dropped to his still bare legs, shuffling her own feet backwards until she was stopped by the cramped quarters of their shelter. She tugged her hands free, and looked back up at him.

“You ask too many questions,” he remarked, bowing his head slightly to be closer to her level. His voice was soft.

Her eyes bore into his.

“You’ve put me in a position where I’m forced to,” she answered.

“Then ask another, for I can already see it on the tip of your tongue.”

“Alright,” she agreed in a tone that told him she was humoring him. “Now that you are standing and still find that you are lame, where is that you wish to go? I am strong, but not even I could endure your weight on my back for overly long.”

“You are also tired and look close to dropping without any help from me. You need to get some sleep. I will stay by the entrance and keep watch while you rest.”

He was pleased at least to see her taken aback by his answer, and pleased even more to have so swiftly removed that mocking look on her face.

“But –“

“But what? Hmm? I wager you did not sleep much last night, if at all, challenging trees and barrels as you were, and after an exhaustive day both mentally and physically. . .” he pressed. “Sleep. I will watch for a while.”

Her eyes flicked once more to his legs; a curious expression on her face of mixed emotions. The strongest appeared to be fear.

“I will not let anything harm you,” he assured.

Her shoulders rose slightly around her ears as she tried to subtly press herself into the cave’s wall.

“ _I_ will not harm you,” he enforced, identifying her reticence. “You have my word.”

Her eyes met his once more; bold determination attempting to mask her uncertainties.

“You promise?”

Bracing his leg, he took one step towards her, one step until their chests were separated by nothing more than the changeable rhythm of their individual breathing. Her hands shot up, pressing against his chest. He felt her palms warmly through the woolen tunic so recently on the back of an obscure farmer’s. Leaning down, he brought his mouth to her ear, enjoying the tension of her arms trying to keep him at bay.

“I will not touch you unless you ask me to,” he intoned in a whisper, “only then.”

Slowly he straightened, making sure that not a part of him grazed a part of her. The only thing that linked them was the steady press of her hands against his chest.

“Of course, you may touch me whenever you like,” he added, his eyes flicking down between them.

Immediately Molly withdrew her hands, hiding them behind her back as she once again tried to become one with the wall.

“I will not touch you, and you will not touch me. You promise?” she reiterated. “You haven’t been gentle.”

“But I can be.”

Retrieving the small knife she had been using earlier, Ragnar handed it again to her, hilt first with only his sincere gaze to express his transference of ownership. She took it, though watched him as she clutched it with a double grip. Nodding his head in satisfaction, he pulled completely away from her, limping to the mouth of the cave where he awkwardly sidled down the wall into a comfortable position. His trousers he ignored for the time being; the thought of anything against his wound summoned the stinging pain he’d rather forget.

“I have given you my word,” he enforced, aware of her still standing. “Now sleep; you will need your strength.”

After the sounds of Molly’s finally obeying him, he glanced quickly over his shoulder and saw that she lay where he had; her head pillowed by clothes, and her legs curled tightly against her body; the knife was still gripped in her hands. Her eyes remained open, but already he could see that she would soon lose the battle.

Turning back to the mouth of the cave, Ragnar muttered, “we both will.”

* * *

  
He kept his word. He did not touch her. Though, he did watch her from time to time. There was only a limited amount of what he could do, and nature watching had never held his focus for long stretches of time. Interest in the book – her book – picked at his mind as he rifled through its pages, indifferent to the blood that stained part of its cover which had averted her in first handling it.

He remembered his surprise in her sudden change in demeanor once she opened the book – recognition immediately clearing away all other thoughts. Her tears had come swiftly as she became manageable (for a time), allowing him to guide her to the destrier and ride off with him.

Palpable excitement thrummed through his veins as the nearness of reward taunted him with the sleeping presence of his companion. She extended that knowledge he wished to attain, drawing his eye more and more from the book to study her countenance.

From the beginning he had been attracted by a certain . . . _offness_ that hovered about her. Her raiment for one, initially, begged many questions; not only for the style, but for the material. There had also been her satchel of bizarre items (still in his possession, though not so closely valued as the book).

Ragnar sat contemplatively, watching the rise and fall of her chest as her hair curtained much of her face, draping over her shoulder as he reconsidered her nature. His first assumptions of her had been rather . . . promiscuous. A twitch of a grin touched his lips as he remembered his discussion with Athelstan that first morning back from the sea, and with her book in hand. The monk had tried to steer his thinking away from such thoughts, but he had found pleasure in the fantasy.

A fantasy that would remain so, for in interacting with her, Ragnar saw wisdom to Athelstan’s words. She had not known what to do when he lay atop her in that hollow; her kisses were clumsy, though spurred on by the moment she had proven a quick learner.

Ragnar ran his tongue along his lower lip, biting the inside as he remembered her efforts and how he wished for the freedom to renew the embrace.

 _‘She will kill you,’_ he quickly thought, tempering his lust.

He chuckled. She would.

She may be innocent, but there was no denying that there was a strength inherent in her. Her very gaze was a weapon that he repeatedly cut himself on; finding pleasure when he should feel pain when her eyes rested on him.

He watched her eyelashes flutter against her cheek, their deep color looking black in the low light. Curled as she was, she appeared smaller than she was; at times not seeming real. Ragnar narrowed his gaze, studying her closer as memory returned of certain stories of Athelstan’s; legends of this land, of the people who had lived before the Christians came.

The Celts were not so different than the Vikings in their beliefs of many gods. They had their stories just as the Danes had theirs.

Watching this Molly Hatch, and the mystery that surrounded her origins, it was little wonder that the suspicious mind transferred to the wakeful as Ragnar began to earnestly wonder from where she had come from.

* * *

  
_The spray of the sea cooled her face as she walked along its shore. The white foam bubbling around her ankles as some witch’s brew before the tug of the tide reclaimed it. The wind was at odds with the sea, battling out a drama in the tongue of Mother Nature as gust met wave and both were forced to crash in an awesome show of battling wills._

_Despite her proximity, their duel did not touch her; only a whisper of a wind streaked a strand of hair across her face, or rustled her skirts around her legs. Likewise, when the water touched her it held none of the quick energy currently lashing out at the wind. Leisurely was its pace as it climbed up the shore, circling her feet as a tease and in no hurry ere it retracted its course._

_Yet still the battle raged on as surf and wind attempted to invade the other’s territory; the wind dipped low, using its force to displace water; as the sea rose high, snatching at a chance to be airborne._

_Molly continued walking, alone and unobserved, watching with deep interest the struggle of the two elements. Her feet in the damp sand left no prints behind her, reminding her that she was not really there. However, her attention was somewhat distracted from the battle when she noticed that footprints preceded her, marking a trail for her in the sand._

_The prints were fresh, and even when the tide rose up and should have altered them, the prints remained undisturbed. Without deliberation, she followed them, aware that they were leading her to where she ought to be. She couldn’t remember how she’d come to this beach, or why she was walking alongside the ocean, but she found that she didn’t mind. Nor was she surprised at the feeling of a presence with her, though there was not another soul on the beach._

_Again she cast her gaze to the waves and wind, deducing from where she felt the presence. As she lingered in her observations, her eye became more watchful as understanding stripped away the thin veil that had cloaked the elements’ interactions in a guise easily interoperated as hostile. Molly stood, turning to look fully as clarity gave vision to the true nature of the two elements whose strength was matched, and whose embraces looked akin to battle at first glance._

_The longer she watched, the better she recognized what was happening. The swipes, at first appearing strong and cutting, were caresses, while the rolling crashes that shook the very horizon were their kisses._

_It was a love affair born by the gravity of their impossibility. The Air could not survive beneath the depths of the water, no matter how many times it plunged in the attempt. The Sea could not raise itself up to that ethereal plane that was the home of its lover._

_Molly continued to walk. Following the trail of the footprints, she noticed that her feet matched perfectly to their indents, and at once she knew that she was following a trail specific to her. For a time it neither wavered nor branched, but Molly’s patience or impatience did not exist here. There was no time to be had or lost; it was a pause on reality that her subconscious was only slightly able to register as her body slumbered in that cave with the Viking._

_At last, she was brought to a stop by a fork in the footprints. With equal measure and symmetry, a set of prints turned left - the other, right. Suddenly the loud passion of the lovers dimmed to a quiet haze as an outlying mist descended in a fortifying gesture, surrounding Molly so that only the two directions were made clear to her – all else inaccessible._

_A loud croak disturbed her meditation, and with a blink she became suddenly aware of a raven standing before her, stationed at the exact center of the two branching paths. One beady eye was trained on her as its head canted at an angle. Again it croaked, turning its beak to her._

_Without introduction or explanation, two items joined the raven, one on either side. Immediately he began pecking at them._   
_A heart and a pocket watch; each assigned to their respective path._

_Molly stared on in confusion, curiously unaffected by the raven digging his beak into the soft flesh of the human organ before he moved to the pocket watch and began rapping at its sealed cover._

_The click, click, click, roused her from her slight hypnosis and without thought she began to back away – feeling a natural aversion to the scene before her. At once, the raven raised its head, the same beady eye glaring at her as if in challenge. Without warning, he left his sport and spread his wings in a few vicious flaps, flying directly towards her. The black of his feathers filled her vision, sweeping over her with talons extended and a terrible croak that rooted her to the spot._

With a start, Molly woke. Her gasp was soft, though her heart hammered violently in her chest as her eyes adjusted to the dim light that weighed like a thumb on the cave. Despite the oppressive ambiance she was almost relieved to be met with the craggy wall of the cave rather than the discerning gaze of that raven. Her dream reappeared instantly as she tried to steady her breathing. She felt almost certain that the bird meant to scratch out her eyes, and in the immediate influence that dreams have on the waking mind, she was greatly disturbed by it and felt convinced of its authenticity.

“You’ve been muttering in your sleep.”

Molly startled again at the unexpected voice, though at once calmed her racing heart as she recognized it and remembered all that had happened the previous day. With a groan, and rubbing her head, she sat up, discarding the knife she had unwittingly held onto through her sleep. The clothes she’d used as a pillow were crumpled and flat, and she had a kink in her neck that prompted her to bow her head and lightly massage it.

“What time is it?” she yawned, not quite ready to look up at the Viking.

“It’s many hours past midday. You slept long and soundly,” he remarked.

“Mmm,” was her only reply. She had half a mind to return to that state of rest if only she could be certain that no ravens were waiting for her on the other side. Finishing her unsatisfactory rub, Molly rolled her head up, tucking her loose hair behind her ears and was immediately arrested by sight of the Viking.

Gone was the mud and blood that seemed inherent to his very core; gone was the grime of battle and travel. At the mouth of the cave, he sat fresh in the clothes pinched from the croft, attired fully and with skin blemished only by the tattoos on his scalp and one or two scars from another time. His eyes were awake and clear, regarding her from a face that disconcerted her in that it bolstered the argument towards his being fallible, therefore human.

“You washed,” she stated, unable to keep from studying his features in their natural state. He raised his brows – his eyes joining part of the way - expressing the obviousness of her observation.

“You look — you look different,” she admitted hesitantly.

“That surprises you?”

“It does. I’ve only ever known you with blood splattered about your person. If not for your hair, I’d go so far as to say you look almost normal.” In a way, she wished he would revert to her preconceived notion of perpetual gore; it would maintain the boundaries much easier.

“And what is wrong with my hair?” he demanded. It was now Molly’s turn to raise her eyebrows as she adjusted her skirt and leaned back against the wall. His eyes widened pointedly in exasperated patience, ducking his head forward, awaiting an answer.

“Is there any food?” Molly decided to ask instead, biting her cheek to keep a traitorous smile from forming at his narrowed gaze. If his vanity could be so easily wounded she’d rather not enter into a debate she didn’t have an interest in, especially when she had other priorities at present. It was several hours since she’d last eaten, and the strain on her stomach was evident by the persistent rumblings escaping that region of her anatomy.

Not wanting to deprive the family she’d stolen from of too much food, she’d limited her sticky fingers to half a loaf of bread, and as many apples as could be quickly filled into that cauldron. She trusted the Viking wouldn’t have eaten it all on his own, or without rationing it, but she also noticed that she couldn’t see them where she’d left them the night before. In fact, she noticed that the Viking had done some tidying up while she’d been sleeping. His worn and bloodied clothes were missing (though his leather armor she’d had to help him out of the previous night was laid by near him), as were the cotton strips. Sweeping her gaze over the cave floor, she marked the cauldron set up atop its little fire, a bubbling brew in the works that scented the air with a subdued aroma. Breathing deeply, she decided it wasn’t bad.

“Busy day?” she wondered, returning the expression he’d used on her that morning. Brushing off whatever injury he felt she’d given him, he eyed her warily before reaching for a makeshift knapsack near him. From within, the food emerged. He tore a generous portion of bread away, tossing it to her and then followed it with an apple. She caught them deftly, dropping the latter offer into her lap as she busied herself with eating the somewhat stale bread. He joined her in partaking of his share.

“You’re leg is better,” she commented, not needing to ask. She noticed his posture was straighter as he sat at the mouth of the cave, his back flush with the wall. It was a relief to see him wearing trousers as well. The thought of closing her eyes while he had essentially been commando and then some had disturbed her greatly; she could never tell when he was choosing to rile her up or genuine in his actions. The sudden memory of his crowding her against the wall, coming within a hairsbreadth and hearing the low timber of his voice directly in her ear caused her to blush. Quickly, she darted her eyes at him to make sure that he had not noticed.

He was busy picking at his meal, though she caught the tail end of his nod. His recognition that his leg was feeling better.

“What are you brewing?” she asked with a full mouth. She was too hungry to care.

“Tea,” he answered monosyllabically.

She paused momentarily in her chewing to consider him. He was tearing at his food, popping the pieces into his mouth as he gazed forward; unusual for him as she was used to finding his eyes normally on her. Maneuvering her tongue to reach a piece of soggy bread caught between her cheek and gum, Molly wondered if there was a greater significance to hair for the Northmen than the Saxons. She hadn’t meant any slight by commenting on it, but nor would she apologize.

“What kind of tea?” she found herself pressing. She bit off a stubborn bite and chewed quickly when the Viking’s gaze flicked to her from the corner of his eye.

“One I learned from my monk,” he answered after a pause. He faced her now, keeping his gaze level with hers. Silently she berated herself for having drawn him out when she should have enjoyed the peace of his momentary disinterest. “It helps with digestion – or so he told me.”

“I thought you said something about a monk last night,” she said, recalling the brief mention of such a person.

“He is likely as familiar with your scratchings as I am myself; it was he I had study your book for months and months when first I attained it.”

“I suppose I am sorry for his wasted effort,” Molly reasoned. She felt she would have no quarrel with a monk, though couldn’t help the suspicions of why the Viking had one.

“Do not be. It offered him occupation when he otherwise would have been preaching to me.”

Swallowing, Molly felt the crease between her brows as she worked how to articulate her question.

“Are you a Christian, then?” She didn’t think she could believe it if it turned out to be true, and her instinct was proven correct when the Viking barked out a laugh.

Leaning forward, a glint in his eye, he said, “I am not. But my brother is – though, he is not very good at it.” He relaxed back against the wall, grinning.

“How do you have a monk then? Oh . . .” Molly pondered, then realized how it must be. “You took him during one of your raids.”

“I spared his life,” he answered. Almost unconsciously, his hand went to his opposite wrist and Molly saw him tug at something through his sleeve. He wore a bracelet; intricately detailed and with the looks of two heads at either end. It did not connect completely, leaving a gap wide enough to be removed. His fingers played with it, turning it round and round as his expression left Molly feeling that he had left her to revisit a memory.

“From what? Yourself,” she inquired with a bit of bite. The Viking quirked his brow, regarding her.

“From my brother,” he answered. He tore off another piece of bread with his teeth. “He can sometimes have a temper.”

“Is this the same brother whose a Christian?” she inquired, somewhat horrified. Her bread was momentarily forgotten.

“I have only the one.”

A silence ensued in which time stretched for each to finish their paltry meal as their thoughts took them far from where they sat. In the distance the screech of a hawk was heard as well as the sly rustling of some land-bound creature nearby – likely a fox.

“Why did you spare him?” Molly eventually asked; her curiosity too strong to ignore.

“Because he asked me to,” he said as if it were obvious, “. . . and he spoke our language.”

The sun was setting, its orange hue tracking its progress against a sliver of the wall the Viking rested against. The light struck his eyes, turning his blue stare translucent as he looked at her.

“He too had a book when first we met; the first I’d ever seen,” he continued. “He was protecting it against our assault on his monastery; the one thing he chose out of all the gold and wealth in that place, and he chose the Gospel of St. John. He was a fool — or perhaps gifted with more wisdom than I could perceive.”

Molly was surprised when she noted a strain of wistfulness enter his voice.

“I had thought him lost for a time,” the Viking told her. He said it sharply, as if it pained him. “For many years he stayed with me, and for many years I had a friend that I never doubted, but the consequences of past events, as well as the ambitions of men, had separated us. This is his,” he held up his arm, shaking it to indicate the bracelet that hung there. “I gave it to him and now it has been returned to me as a pledge of good faith.” He almost laughed as he said that. Molly wondered why.

“Do you know where he is now?” she asked.

The bracelet underwent a few more twirls around the Viking’s wrist before he responded.

“He is close. I will be seeing him soon, I hope.”

With nothing to employ her hands with – no food to fiddle with or occupy half her attention – she was forced to acknowledge that she wasn’t ready for a silence to conclude their discussion. She was also forced to acknowledge that her curiosity was genuine.

“Did - did he mind you taking him?”

“It was better than meeting his death,” the Viking answered simply. “He was not altogether a ‘full’ monk you might say. He found something of himself when he lived with us in Kattegat. He learned to be two people – or at least to reconcile his two halves.”

“I can understand that,” Molly admitted after a moment. Her voice was quiet as she thought of her own experiences.

“Can you,” he stated more than asked. His gaze suddenly turned probing.

“This monk – does he have a name?” she parried, not yet ready to turn the direction of discourse towards her.

“Athelstan. I think you two would get along.”

Molly shrugged, but did not argue the possibility. Frankly, she was intrigued, though refused to say as much. What she failed to realize, however, was that her many questions gave away her interest.

“Was this tea a brew from his monestary?”

The Viking smiled at her and for the first time she recognized a handsome face. Lowering her eyes, she swallowed the embarrassment she felt for thinking such a thing.

“Questions, questions, questions,” he mocked. “I thought I was the one who was meant to be wondering about you.”

“You may wonder about me, but I have never promised to tell you anything.”

“You hold to your secrets as most women would hold to their jewels. Have you taken an oath of silence?”

“No,” she said slowly, “but you cannot always trust people.”

At those words, his smile dimmed somewhat and he regarded her with a more sober eye.

“That is true.”

He looked away, casting his gaze past the entrance of the cave, his face alight with the final vestiges of the day. Unable to help herself, Molly observed him, sneaking glances through her eyelashes while learning his true features that had been hidden for so long.

She could not understand the rapidity of her changing opinion; of even extending the merest sympathy towards this man. Only yesterday she promised herself she would not trust him, and while that still remained true, she found that she was no longer as alarmed to be in his company – at least not for his sake. Should Lord Cyneric’s guards discover them then she would be very alarmed.

Nor was she disinclined to speaking with him.

“What is your name?” she asked, disturbing the long quiet. She decided it was time to know.

“Is it important?” he said, turning back to look at her. The sun had set completely, the twilight dusk would be soon approaching.

“It is odd that you will not tell me it when I have imparted mine – and been insulted over it.”

The corner of his mouth twitched upward.

“You offered your name freely,” he argued.

“Only after you asked,” she pointed out.

“And only because you asked me my name. You see, we are going in circles,” he concluded.

“But as I have no new name to give we would be better served to learn yours.”

He considered her momentarily.

“Why is it so important?”

“Because I cannot always refer to you as ‘Viking’ or ‘Northman’.”

“Is that what you have been calling me in your head?”

“Among other things - yes. What else am I to call you when I know not your name?”

“You may call me Ragnar,” he said abruptly, and on the heels of her sentence. Molly hesitated.

“Is it your real name?” she sounded doubtful.

“It is. What?” he added, grinning at her frown. “I have given you my name, and yet you stare at me with suspicion.”

“It’s only that I find it hard to believe that you would alter your decision of secrecy in the midst of our talk.”

“Well, I have. I trust you. You have taken care of me when I was vulnerable. I thank you for that.”

“You do not need to. It was done for purely selfish motives. As you pointed out - I would not last a single night on my own,” she said more bitterly then she intended. Sighing, she listened to the watery rumble of the water boiling.

“What does it mean?” she inquired after a moment; her tone softer. “Ragnar?”

He left off fiddling with the monk’s bracelet – which he had been doing ever since their talk of him – and watched her. She kept his gaze, uncertain whether he meant to unnerve her or make her uncomfortable. She wanted to prove to him, as much as herself, that she would match him.

“I will tell you, but only if you tell me what your name means,” he said, setting his terms. “I cannot think of one more unsuited to you, but perhaps its meaning is in more alignment.”

“It is not an ugly name,” Molly said, repeating herself from yesterday. She couldn’t help the small tug of a smile at the ridiculousness of this argument.

“ _Molly Hatch_ — it sounds harsh and unfeminine.”

“Molly is a sweet name. It’s playful,” she defended. It had been her grandmother’s, and it was her memory she felt she was defending more than the name.

Ragnar raised an eyebrow.

“Are you playful then?”

“Not with you,” she said. “But I used to be,” she added without really meaning to. It slipped out as she was reminded of mindless conversations and pointless discussions that appealed to her unnatural hardened state of mind. For six years she had been on constant alert, her guard always up, and ever vigilant of the dangers she needed to avoid. She’d almost forgotten that once upon a time she’d had a playful nature and had prided herself on her sense of adventure.

She looked down at the journal beside her, placing a hand on its cover as she remembered her last day in Scotland, waving her friends goodbye as she chose to explore the country in spite of the rain.

“I used to be another person,” she revealed, echoing his sentiments from the day before. Her voice was low, though she felt the power in her words and suddenly she realized how desperate she was to share her experiences with another human being; to share the burden of what had been kept silent for so long; and dare she even think it, to reclaim a portion of that old Molly by summoning her to a place she had not been allowed to exist. The force of that desire frightened her though.

She snatched her hand away from the journal and looked back to the Viking — to Ragnar. It was a strange name to her, but then so were all the names that had been her constant for the past six years. His, somehow, suited him.

His eyes had not left her and she felt that she could read his curiosity through his gaze. She opened her mouth; the pull to tell another coaxed words to her mouth; her tongue twitched. But then she swallowed.

She knew his willingness to hear her story, and at this point she knew she would tell him. Perhaps it was because he was the first person she had met on this side of Time, or that, as a result of how circumstances brought them together she already recognized a part of herself that had not trusted to be woken again. Whatever it was, it was enough to convince her to reveal that part of herself to the man she’d really only known for a day and a night, but whom she already spoke more freely with than any she had considered acquaintances at the manor.

“Molly is a derivative of the name Mary, after Mother Mary, Jesus’ mother,” she explained. “It was my grandmother’s. She was a mechanic in the war; a ‘Rosie the Riveter’ gal. She built B-25 bombers and was my favorite grandparent.” She spoke in mixed English, combining the Old and the modern to answer the question and add her personal history to it. “Hatch merely means ‘a gate’, though, one particularly leading to a forest.”

“And from whom did you get that name?”

“My father,” she answered. “It’s passed down. Do you not have a name like that?” she wondered, somewhat familiar with the different system of names in this time.

“No,” he answered, “no my names are all ones given to me; first by my parents of their choosing, then by others who have witnessed my exploits.”

“Is Ragnar not your full name?”

“Ragnar Lothbrok.”

“It has an impressive sound,” Molly admitted.

“You are more generous to me than I have been with you,” he smiled. “Though,” he continued, adopting a somewhat mock seriousness, “I may have to reconsider my initial disdain to your name of Hatch,” he emphasized. “A gate leading to a forest – I can see how it applies to you. You are a lady of the forest; always appearing under its canopy and catching my eye.”

Molly shifted, looking away.

“Don’t talk like that.”

“Why not? It’s the truth.”

“Because I asked you to,” she simply responded. She looked back at him after a pause and saw a contemplative look on his face.

“So, I have told you what my name means; what is the meaning of yours?” she prompted, wishing to change the energy. He obliged.

“Like yours, mine is well suited: in broad terms Ragnar means wisdom - or counsel - to the army,” he appeared pleased as he told her this, almost as if hearing that which he already knew, and from his own mouth, did not take away the pleasure that such a name was his. “As I say, it is fitting for all I have ever sought is that knowledge that has proven mightier than the weapons of Men. Odin, one of our gods, gave his eye to acquire knowledge,” he explained, his voice becoming serious, “but I would give far more.”  
Outside, the song of the birds were steadily diminishing, yet Molly turned deaf to them all at once as she listened to the Viking’s words and heard the conviction in them. She had heard of Odin before, though not in the context of the Norse sagas. Thor, Loki, Odin — all characters she remembered from Marvel movies and had viewed as being the fantasy genre for that studio. She remembered that Anthony Hopkins as Odin had worn an eye patch, and wondered if the movie had followed true Norse mythology in that detail.

The dim light that filtered into their cave cast a portion of his face in shadow, so that it appeared as if he were viewing her from a single eye. She swallowed, unnerved by the resemblance to that entity so recently named.

“That is why you have kept my journal,” she eventually said, understanding a little better his motives, as she thought of their conversation the previous night. He dipped his chin in acknowledgment.

“For a time I kept it with me merely as a reminder that despite our efforts we will never know everything. Its presence was a continuous challenge. At times I was certain of its mocking me.”

Molly smiled, unable to help herself.

“And how it will be mocking you even more once you do discover its contents,” she teased, amused that a hardened warrior would take so much trouble in learning what could be written in a journal belonging to (at the time) a girl who was not yet twenty.

Ragnar canted his head, and Molly could already recognize the expression that marked his satisfaction.

“So you will read it to me?”

“How is your leg?” she asked in an obvious deflection.

He understood the tactic and made plain that he did with a look, though obliged her regardless.

“It is better,” he conceded. “I do not feel the sting of the alcohol any longer and am grateful for it. Tomorrow we will continue away from this place.”

She listened to this news with a tight stomach. Her apprehension of him returned as she felt the uncertainty of what he meant for her fate. She was somewhat assured that his interest in her was mostly scholarly, though she could not ignore the comments, nor the looks he gave her that hinted towards his attraction.

“And where will we be going?” she ventured to inquire.

“I must return to my camp. There was a battle yesterday against King Ecbert and King Aelle — we were not victorious,” he muttered bitterly. “I must return to see the extent of the damage.”

“King Aelle?” Molly questioned, recognizing the name. “Is he not the one you told me of; the one whose brother you ransomed?” she asked, curiously unsympathetic towards the Saxon king in pursuit of her interest.

“He is. He is no doubt gloating over his triumph,” he said, though speaking more to himself.

“I know of King Ecbert. My master . . . my former master did not like him. I wonder if that is why he sent none of his guards, for if there was a battle he must have been summoned upon to provide men,” Molly considered, thinking.

“King Ecbert needed not extra men when he had the application of a superior strategy. We were surrounded and led by a foolish man more interested in achieving fame and glory than pursuing that which would have crowned him in splendor for the achievements of joining our societies,” Ragnar practically spat, giving Molly the impression that he was venting. “There is a time for talk and a time for war — King Horrik lacks the wisdom to know which to implement at the right time.”

A silence ensued, isolating the one into recent remembrances, while coaxing sympathies from the other. To Molly, it seemed that a further veil was lifted, revealing more to her of how this Viking, how Ragnar, came to be here and how he had acquired his wound. For six years she had lived in Wessex – England before it was – and only twice had she met any Viking. She wondered that she felt more concerned for the Viking’s welfare rather than the men she should have more feelings for - if not for association alone. The Vikings were, after all, the invading force. Yet, something in Ragnar’s tone told of more to this story.

“This King Horrik,” she began. Ragnar looked up at her. “Do you know if he survived?”

He shook his head, his gaze trailing away from hers. “No. I know only that the Wessex men were ensuring the deaths of my people who had fallen wounded. I escaped them before they could extend that courtesy to me.”

“How? You couldn’t have run,” Molly inquired, leaning forward, unaware that she did so.

“I was lucky enough to be at the summit of a hill. When I saw Odin’s raven flying overhead, his grim feathers cast black against the pale sky, I knew it was his signal to me to flee that place. Enough strength surged through my body, lifting the pain momentarily, allowing me to roll down the hill and be concealed by the forest at the base. The pain was quick to return, and so, I laid there, unable to move, unable to call out, unable to see what fate befell my kin.

"When finally I could rise, I did, using the support of the trees to guide me through its maze. My intention was to find a route that would lead me back to the camp, yet that plan was interrupted when I came across a road splitting the forest, and waited to see who, if any, persons would pass.

"One person did pass,” he said after a pause. His eyes found hers, “and it was sight of her that distracted me from my course and which has led me to my current location. Perhaps I did wrong to follow you,” he remarked, a glint to his eyes.

Sitting back, Molly raised her brows. She was slightly unnerved to hear that it was a raven that had guided Ragnar’s direction, ultimately leading him to her.

“For my sake, you most certainly did,” she answered, brushing aside her unanswerable concerns for the present. “But as for yourself you’d likely have been riddled with infections if not for me.”

Despite her interest in his story, she maintained her earlier notion of her life having been fine (manageable, at least) until he appeared. It would be dangerous for her to think anything different. His steady voice and engaging history had drawn her in like a guddled fish; keen on that tickle that enticed her imagination. Upon listening to his narrative, she had the sudden desire for more tales; of learning of the peoples from his country and listening, as was the custom of the time, around a warm fire to the myths and legends that presently had more life in them than certain people.

“That word – you have used it before,” Ragnar inquired. No doubt referring to the one modern English word she had slipped in. “Infix — infixson? What does it mean?”

“ _In-fec-tion_ ,” she enunciated. “It is a state of decay, I suppose. You can get an infection even from the smallest of cuts which makes it dangerous. If you don’t treat it, it has the chance of turning deadly. It can spread throughout the body.”

He was watching her closely.

“Where did you learn of medicine?”

“Nowhere,” she smiled, amused at his assumption. “I never was taught anything other than basic . . . healing methods. From where I come from it is called ‘first aid’.”

“And where is it you come from, Molly Hatch?”

She knew the question was coming a second before it was asked. Her smile faltered only to allow a hint of a melancholy to touch it. She felt her heart rate quicken as she took her next breath.

“Do you think you’d believe me — if I told you?”  
She picked up her journal and stared at its cover, smoothing away invisible dust and creases. “In all my time here no one has ever known my true origins. They knew I didn’t understand their language, but then they couldn’t understand some of those from the Continent. Most assumed I was from Frankia, even when I couldn’t understand the Frankish guests who stayed at the hall and thought they had found a little piece of home in this frigid land.

"In the end it didn’t matter so long as I did my duty. Nothing matters but duty here; duty in a roundabout way that is. Coercion, blackmail, intimidation – that sort of duty. Is that what duty is like from where you’re from?” she asked him suddenly, remembering his presence just as she was getting caught up by the familiar pull to unburden herself.

He was watching her intently; his focus solely on her. At her question, however, he blinked as it registered that she was not being rhetorical.

“I’m afraid there is that brand of duty everywhere. There is a reason why your saints are not kings – or so I am told.”

“And you? Is that the sort of duty you follow?”

“You will think so; after all I am hourly reminded of my first, failed attempt of attaining you.”

“But do you hold yourself to that low standard of duty; or do you seek something higher?”

Without warning, Molly felt quite desperate for his answer, and what was more she wanted his answer to please her. She knew she could not stop herself now; she was on the verge of revealing what meant everything to her. Even as she waited for his response, words jumbled in excited anticipation of being used to initiate the revelation, so much so that she had no clear idea of how she would begin when the telling of it wanted to be told all at once.

Prompted by her earnestness, Molly saw that Ragnar recognized the moment for what it was, saving his wise remarks and quirked smiles for a direct look that held Molly’s attention with all the power of fading everything else to a dull blur. Only the mild flames of the fire broke any light onto their features, casting greater shadows, yet pinpricking Ragnar’s eyes so that she saw them clearer than anything else.

“In true duty,” he spoke, “there is honor. Without it, it is only an illusion of a man’s intention; ready to fall at the first contesting wind.”

They watched each other for a heartbeat; then, “why did you try to take me?”

It was a whisper, yet its echo filled their little cave.

“I wanted you,” he answered. She thought he was being careful.

“Why did you want me?”

“I’ve told you –“

“No,” she interrupted. “You’ve told me one of your reasons. I want to know all of them.”

He did not answer immediately. Perched as he was against the opposite wall of the cave, sitting at an angle just to fit in the cramped space, he did not have much expression of movement. Molly could tell that he was seeking to avoid an outright answer; the way his eyes suddenly became shy of hers.

“Why did you want me, Northman?” she repeated, her tone brooking no arguments as she returned to her former way of addressing him.

“Very well,” his eyes met hers, no longer skittish. “I wanted you to warm my bed at night – every night.” He maintained her gaze. “Are you satisfied now? Or will you abandon me?”

“Would you have forced me?” Molly asked calmly rather than answer. She felt oddly numb as she conducted this interrogation. She needed to know – even if it was uncomfortable – she needed to know in order to continue.

“I don’t think I would have needed to.”

“You sound very sure.”

“I am.” He did not level a look at her of desire, nor adopt a wolfish grin; he did nothing indicative of a predator sure of its prey. He merely smiled – a genuine one that spoke of his mild amusement at this conversation, distinguishable even through the half-light that cast a flattering glow upon his face. Molly wanted to hate him at that moment.

“And if you could not? Would you have forced me then?”

“No. My brother would’ve,” he offered, “but I have always found it more enjoyable with a willing partner.”

“And as you have already told me that you only have the one, this must be the same man who would kill a monk, though he be himself a Christian! May it be that I never meet him! ”

Ragnar laughed quietly. “You needn’t worry over Rollo; he would be too frightened of you to touch you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that while I love my brother, I am also well versed in his failings. Women have never been his strong suit –“

“Not if he goes around raping them,” she mumbled.

“- and you would be too much for him to wish to handle.”

“But not for you?”

“Not for me,” he repeated.

At last she broke her gaze from his and looked about the cave, processing the information she had long suspected, though was now able to digest in its form of clear facts.  
Long since had her perceptions changed. If they hadn’t she would never have survived. Certain things that would have been scandalous in this time she had once found acceptable in hers, others the exact reverse. She would never condone kidnapping – not ever. Nor would she ever condone the practice of slavery she knew the Vikings employed after each plundered village and town. She would never call this time her own, yet it was the time she was in.

Had Ragnar come to her in the twenty-first century, his methods would have followed the modern equivalent of hitting her over the head and dragging her off to his cave – so, not far off from what he’d initially attempted or their present circumstances. He would have tried to engage, attracting her attention, where he would then have proceeded to ask her out.

None of that luxury of patience belonged to this era though. If not for some twist of fate, there was no reason for them to have ever met again. Northumbria had seen the place of their first meeting; Wessex the second. It was the difference of Scotland and the south of England. The chances of their ever having met again were a million to one. Yet, they had.

The connections and the links that bound people of this era together relied on the strength of paper, time, and distance. There was no allowance for hesitating in a moment when what you wanted was before you.

In a way, Molly understood that. She didn’t have to like it, but she understood it. What was more, she was beginning to understand him.

Bringing her eyes back to his, she noticed his attention and wondered what he was thinking – hoping it was nothing lascivious.

“I don’t approve, you know,” she said at last.

His smile returned.

“I didn’t think you would. You are very uptight.”

“You only think I am,” she replied. A ghost of a smile played with the corners of her lips, though she couldn’t understand why. “But I don’t have anything to prove to you; you can think what you like of me – indeed, you already have.”

“What I think of you is not as simple as matters of the flesh. Yes, I have wanted you,” his words were spoken low and seemed almost buoyed by the flames of the small fire, “but there is something you have yet to understand: you have haunted me as much as I have haunted you. It is no coincidence that we have been thrown together this second time; there is reason to everything. I have wanted you, but I do not lie when I say that the secrets you hold are a greater inducement in attaining you than simple . . . pleasure.”

Molly surprised herself by smiling unexpectedly; finding humor in his priorities. She ducked her chin, hiding her features so that he would not think her amenable to any of what he was saying. Her smile was something she might not have indulged in had she been more mature in the ways of a man and a woman; had she found his words an insult. But she had never been with a man. She had never known herself as a woman with a man; only as a girl to pubescent boys who thought that romantic overtures were pretending to hold their imaginary breasts as a show of appreciation for the attributes of their counterparts.

There was comfort in knowing what Ragnar prioritized. Comfort in knowing that, at least to him, knowledge outpaced the stereotype of the northern pillagers that ransacked shores and ravished women. He had not forced himself on her while she slept, going so far as to arm her with his own knife and promise that he would not touch her. As much as it disquieted her, in her heart of hearts, she could not totally ignore the returned interest that was beginning to form, awoken by his frank admission of attraction that he was able to convey without leering at her as Lord Cyneric’s guards had done to everything that moved in a skirt. It occurred to her suddenly that mayhap there was some truth to Ragnar’s words. She had grown so accustomed to dodging certain areas of the manor, or never going down certain corridors alone that it had become another part of her daily routine. She and the other serving girls never left their door unlocked at night, and more than once had their number been subtracted by events that would be followed by whispers so that only confused retellings of what had actually happened remained, serving to distort and frighten the auditors all the more.

Of this, she would never admit to him. She would never hear the end of it.

“It is well for you that what you place a higher value on is something I am willing to part with,” she informed him instead, “for I will not part with the other.”

“Do not be too quick to draw conclusions; it will be a few days yet before we reach the camp, and you forget – we’ve already shared a kiss.”

“And you forget, Ragnar Lothbrok that it was a ploy. One I should not have engaged in as it only heightened the libido of the guards we were trying to get rid of. Also I am not altogether sure I will be joining you at your camp. I may trust you somewhat with words, but how can I trust you in actions? I cannot leave this place, but I think you would force me.”

“Why can’t you leave this place?” he questioned, ignoring the rest of her comments.

She hesitated only a split second before answering.

“It is connected to how I came to be here. I fear that if I leave, I will never make it back.”

“And where do you fear you will not return? With a vessel I can take you anywhere you wish to go. I can bring you to your home.” His offer had the ring of truth to it, and Molly felt a little more of her resolve turning its back on her.

“If only you could, but it is impossible. Besides, would you not plunder it the moment your feet touched the shore?” she put to him, not quite stern, not quite smiling.

He shrugged unconcerned.

“I may poke my head around here and there, but I would be more interested in seeing what you had to show me.”

Despite her best efforts, a small smile won out.

“Yes, I rather think you would be more interested in what I had to show you rather than terrifying the locals.”

She rested her head against the wall of the cave, imagining Ragnar walking down her parent’s street, axe in hand, hair twisted down his back, his shaved skull displaying his tattoos on either side and his attempting to raid one of the houses. She chuckled when she quite clearly envisioned Mrs. Douglas fire her shot gun in self-defense.

_One-thousand two-hundred and nineteen years._

That was the time that stood between their beliefs, their morals, their ideas. It was the domain of countless lifetimes and multiple generations; the property of evolution and progress. But apparently all that was not enough to separate their conversation.

“I knew what you were, you know, the first moment I saw your boat,” Molly said quietly, her eyes swiveling so that she looked at him while keeping her head braced against the wall. “I will never forget that moment of jumping into the ocean, not even knowing that we were still near the shore, simply knowing that I had to get away,” she did not spare him. “I felt my bag snap around me, though I didn’t realize exactly what it was at the time. It was only when I looked back and saw you preparing to jump in after me, my bag in your hand.”

She paused, her eyes drifting away from his and settling on an indiscriminate patch of wall. Ragnar remained quiet, listening.

“It was then that I saw the boat — and I knew,” she continued, as if in a trance of memory. “I couldn’t believe it, I didn’t allow myself to. But I knew; and everything after only confirmed that first awareness, solidifying it until it became the reality of my day-to-day.

“You have traveled, Ragnar,” she continued, “but you have not traveled so far as I. And the funny thing is . . . I never meant to travel such lengths, nor to where I did. It was meant to be a round trip. For one month with my friends – we were going to see the world. Well,” she amended, a smile on her face that belonged to a Molly of a different age, “we were going see the UK and Ireland, but it was still more than we’d ever seen before. I wonder if they continued with the trip. They probably didn’t,” she responded to herself, half forgetting the presence of her audience. “I hope they did, though. We’d been planning it for so long.”

Molly sighed. The journal in her lap was picked up as she brought her head down to peer at it. Slowly she cracked open the cover, turning it to the first page.

“Do you know why you could find no one to read my writing?”

The fire cracked as embers shot around the cauldron - the brew momentarily forgotten. Ragnar shook his head. She caught the motion out of the corner of her eye.

“It is because no one could read it. The language is a product of another time — my time. It is the English belonging to the culmination of years of growth and change.”

Her eyes easily found his.

“The day you found me was the day I fell through time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all who commented, gave kudos and read! Your support is great, and I really appreciate it.
> 
> I've recently created a new blog on tumblr — the-fox-knows . tumblr . com (take the spaces out, though) — where you will find this story and a moodboard I put together to go with it. I'm thinking that I'll post updates, previews, and any other tidbits there. And if any of you are into genuine Norse mythology, Celtic mythology, Celtic music or even baking those are all things I cover in the blog. I love learning new songs in different languages - mostly Irish and Scottish Gaelic - so all the singing you'll hear is my voice testing out the waters and hoping that I'm pronouncing it adequately. :P  
> Either today or tomorrow I'll be posting a narrated Norse story that serves as an introduction to the times before Ragnarök. I'm still editing it, as well as packing for the move, so we'll see how fast I can get everything done!
> 
> Hoping you all are well, and hope you will check it out!


	5. I'll Tell You A Story

“It was 2019; June to be precise when I traveled to the United Kingdom — or as you would know it, this island of divided kingdoms.” She paused, her gaze cautiously reading his features as his own gaze slipped away from hers. His eyes were narrowed and calculating, a single line marring his brow as he stared at the cave wall, seeing beyond their cramped shelter. Molly knew what he was seeing, for she was seeing it too. That Northumbrian wood; the confusion, the fear, and the ultimate determination that ruled them both that day. He had wanted her, but she had wanted her freedom. Her will had ruled.

“These lands: Wessex, Northumbria, Mercia, they do not endure as separate entities. They will combine into a single kingdom – England. That’s what it will be called,” she told him, thinking to influence his belief by offering tantalizing facts of the future she felt he would be unable to resist. She read him well, for his glazed eyes blinked into focus ere swiveling to the corner until they rested on her. A cautious grin quirked his lips, though she read little humor in his expression. She understood it was the façade he adopted when he wished to keep his true thoughts to himself; the flash of a grin only to be supplanted by a frown that conveyed the genuine depth of his interest.

“You claim to be from the future?” he asked quietly, his grin immediately dipping out of sight. The fire stood out like a live thing reflected in his stare. His eyes fixed on her while his posture appeared still, as if he wouldn’t take his next breath until he had riddled the puzzle that she was.

“Yes,” she nodded, holding his gaze.

“How?” he put to her. His expression was at once laced with a coating of cynicism, though, once settled into his question Molly recognized a gleam in his eye that gave her courage enough to believe in that questing wisdom she was relying on.

Recognizing this moment for what it was, she swallowed, gulping past her nerves as her fingers inched their way to her elbows where she held herself tightly. Only a beat of hesitation marked the moment when Molly Hatch decided to bridge the chasm that had yawned beneath her feet for so many years; to extend her hand and let somebody in. It somehow didn’t bother her that it was the Viking she was reaching for. During the past twenty-four hours he had lost his moniker and gained the identity of his person. He was Ragnar Lothbrok, a man she had a precarious history with, but the one who presently sat across from her willing to listen.

“I was on the shore,” she began, her voice thick, “in Scotland. You don’t that country because it hasn’t been formed yet, but it’s the land where you first found me.”

His head tilted as his narrowed eyes smoothed into a more pensive expression. He took his first breath.

“The rain had abated somewhat, and I don’t remember being concerned over lightning,” she continued. “My friends were waiting for me up in our rooms. There were three of them: Cathy, Ellie, and Gracie,” she said, taking care to say their names slowly, as if to savor the memory of what had once been a daily curl of her tongue. “We were visiting from our home - from America.”

She paused again, furrowing her brow as she tried to remember dates. “Do you know a Lief Erikson? Or perhaps know of him?” she wondered. She briefly remembered learning that that Viking had been one of the first, or maybe the only Northman to make it to North America before Christopher Colombus in 1492.

“I know many Lief’s,” he obliged, though looking uncertain of the question. “Why do you ask?”

“It is only that Lief Erikson will be a well-known explorer. He discovers North America. It’s the land that will eventually be my home,” she elaborated when she detected a hitch to his brow. “Do you know him?” she repeated.

“No, I cannot say that I do,” he answered. The ghost of his grin reappeared, hidden somewhat by his beard. And if Molly knew him better, knew all the quirks of his features and the glance of his expressions she would understand that the intensity of his stare was not mere focus, that the slight cant of his head no mere intrigue — but a growing triumph.

“It may be that he is after your time,” she shrugged a little disappointedly. She’d hoped that she’d unearthed a link that could be used to her advantage, unaware of the already shifting dynamic occurring between them in her favor. Molly believed that hers would be an uphill battle, trying to convince him of something she herself wouldn’t have believed in prior to experiencing it. In spite of her immersion with the culture of the time, she could not abandon the skepticism that belonged to her own culture, nor help apply it to what others would think of her story.

“This _noorth umairika_ , you say it is the land you hail from? Where is it?” Ragnar wondered, drawing his good leg up and resting his elbow on it. He was leaning a little closer.

“Far from here,” she said, drawing her own knees up, though in a more protective stance as she hugged them to her chest. “It lies across the sea.”

“Which sea?”

“The Atlantic.”

Ragnar’s eyes narrowed again. “There is land beyond the Atlantic?”

Molly nodded, adding, “quite a lot of it. You Europeans think you’re the center of the world until the 1500’s. Or sometime around there. I was never good in history class,” she went on to explain, no doubt nonsensically to him.

“What other lands are there besides your home?” he continued with his inquiries, causing Molly to grimace slightly. She _had_ wanted to sweeten the pot initially with these snippets of facts, but steadily she could feel her impatience mounting as the momentum she had gained for her own history was waning.

“There are many; too many to name presently, though I will tell you that there are three Americas. There is the North, Central, and South Americas and each is made up of countries . . . er, that is, a form of kingdom.”

“When does this Leif Erikson discover these lands?” he asked, already forgetting her ignorance on the dates.

“I told you, I don’t know. It must be after this time though as I’m sure you would’ve heard about him. And besides, he only landed on North America. He likely wasn’t aware of the expansiveness of the land.”

“What is the distance? How long will it take to reach your land?”

Molly blinked. “I don’t know! Months and months I’d assume.”

Ragnar’s brow furrowed. “How can you not know when you say you journeyed from that land?” His glance turned suspicious. Yet Molly could only indulge in a rueful smile as she envisioned a plane flying over his head as explanation.

“Travel does not remain the way you know it to be, Ragnar. Between the thousand years that mark your time to mine many things evolve into creations beyond imagining. I do not think you would understand even if I told you how I traveled to this island, for nothing of its kind exists today, save perhaps the winged beasts.”

Ragnar jerked his head back, his mouth wavering between that uncertain smirk and that curious frown as his eyes flicked to the mouth of the cave and back.

“You can fly?” he posed to her, clearly not believing. And Molly was glad to be able to shake her head.

“No, I cannot fly. But men have made machines that can.” And before he could ask another question, she ploughed on. “Whatever you wish to know, I will tell you - to the best of my knowledge,” she said, her voice deliberately low so that he would be inclined to listen and not speak. “I will tell you about America and all the countries that will be new to you. I will tell you of the plane, train, and automobile; how people can travel across the world in a day; how we can speak to those far, far away and hear their voices in our ear. I will tell you about Neil Armstrong and his famous footprint on the moon. I will tell you all this and more – but, first . . . first I need to tell you a story. My story.”

And she did.

Of that day she told him everything. It was either say it all, or maintain her silence – she could not imagine an in-between. As an outpouring, long bottled and static with energy waiting to be released, Molly found that the words she had mentally tripped over, prior to her decision of telling Ragnar, poured fluidly from her mouth and into his sponge-like mind – absorbing everything with ardor.

Occasionally, when her eyes would flick to his, she would watch him, noting his stillness that marked his absolute focus. He did not interrupt her again, not even to inquire over words she knew he couldn’t understand – words she couldn’t translate, though she did her best to explain. He was her audience, and as any good auditor, he knew what was required of him. When she paused to recollect a moment, or had to turn her face away to hide unbidden emotions, she was not hurried to continue.

In lieu of that courtesy, she indulged in speaking of events leading up to the trip, of bidding her parents a teary farewell at the airport; of her and her friends accidentally insulting one of the flight attendants by referring to them as English when they had, in fact, been Scottish; of landing in Heathrow and waiting over an hour for Gracie’s duffle bag. She spoke of a thousand and one things she had forgotten, lost somewhere in the hazy limbo of her interrupted life, but which now sprang forth as if resurrected.

While she spoke the night wearied, falling into shade and quiet. Hour followed hour, yet her soft tones did not dim in the presence of the watchful night. The only other companion to her voice was the snapping flames beneath the long-forgotten tea that bubbled in its neglect. It was only when the brew spilled passed the sides of the cauldron, hissing immediately at the contact with the flames, that attention was returned to it. Molly jerked out of her compact position, rising to her feet as she grabbed a fistful of her skirts to lift the cauldron from its perch, hissing herself at the heat. Quickly, she set it near the fire, releasing her grip and rubbing her hands together.

“I’m afraid it’s a bit burnt,” she told him, looking up from inspecting the brew. She swished it only to see the herbs shriveled and black.

“It is of no matter,” he said, unconcerned. “I would hear the rest of your story before soothing any stomach aches.”

From where she stood, Molly looked down at him, aware that a small smile tugged at her lips. A fanciful vision of a monk dressed as a nursemaid coming to serve out a stretched out Ragnar, undone by a serious tummy ache, distracted her momentarily as she remembered that the monk’s brew was for easing digestion. Her smile grew wider and threatened to morph into a chuckle.

Her heart was lighter. The burden of carrying her secret for so long no longer weighed on her even though she had yet to conclude her narrative. Yet, already she felt the ease of old manners returning to her as she remembered her old self. Intangible as it was, there was a certain amount of happiness that existed in simply being able to talk about her old life to another human being.

So as she resumed her seat, a tad closer to Ragnar than before, there was no pause or hesitation when she picked up the threads of her tale and continued.

“We were making a tour of the United Kingdom and Ireland, as I said, but I was always most excited to see Scotland. I’d dreamt of the Highlands and the heather, of the whiskey and kilts, of all the romantic associations with the place; my father even noted that I had an unhealthy interest in the pipes and drums.” She did stop then, only for a moment as she found what peace she could in the phantoms she’d summoned. She sighed. “I’m sure it’s best that I never got to see it in the end; it might not have lived up to my expectations.” Tentatively , she offered her companion — the one of flesh and blood, and the only one who could hear her — a glimpse of a smile that told a completely different story to the one that had just preceded it, and which forgot in that moment that he wouldn’t understand her silver-lining humor, as paltry as it was.

His eyes may be keen, either fixed as they were on her face or hovering just around her; brilliant in their intensity and strength yet, at that moment, lacking the spark of any recognition for anything she had just said.

Her face drooped suddenly, exposed as it was to the rawness of the many strong emotions required this night.

The relief that had belonged to the minute before was gone, usurped by the realization of reality. No matter the chances of ever getting close to anyone – and so far this Viking was the nearest to a heart-to-heart she’d had in six years – the nuances of her time would forever remain the property of its time; locked away behind the secrets of its knowledge that would always remain a barrier between her and others. The comfort of remembering home was hers; just not the comfort of home.

In a whirl of contained emotion, never flickering past the internal storm of her mind, Molly at once wanted to throw herself at Ragnar, cling to his chest and just be held as she sobbed and felt sorry for herself; yet in that same brand of impulsiveness she wanted to run – to run in a pointless direction, but one that took her far from the cave, far from him, and far from everything that resembled anything that had been her familiar for the past half-decade.

Swallowing, she steadied herself. Her thumbs were busy picking at each other’s nails, scoring her skin in a pattern of crescents.

She told him of the beach.

Closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, she told him of that landmark whose grey skies had blackened the water and appeared as the shores of superstition, serving as a portal that had opened for her unwilling passage.

The years spent serving Lady, then Lord Cyneric had been kind in one regard: never had she known her mind as well as she presently did. Despite her duties and chores, they claimed nothing of her time as the convenience of modern technology had. Days regularly burst at the seams with work, thoughts, and sometimes, even play. Boredom was no longer a constant in her vocabulary; indeed, she regularly forgot the word with how little she thought of it. What she _did_ think of, however, and what had occupied her thoughts during her more menial tasks was the day in which she had stood on that shore. The tide had been low, and even then — ignorant as she had been — she had mused over thoughts of in-between places; crossroads, dusk, dawn, and of course that strip of sand, appearing only at its designated hours when the sea was low, so that that in-between area was not quite of the land, nor yet of the sea.

And that, she believed, had been her portal.

All this she told him; explaining her reasoning that found grounding in the very nature of the mystic land.

“There are stories – legends and myths, though, I don’t know their names in this speech – that tell of unwary travelers who find mischief done to them; the wanderer who does not heed the natural warnings of nature and find themselves in, what would be called, _a fix_. These stories are not so ancient as they once were to me, their narrative has more meaning as I now know that there is power in their messages,” she said, drawing her legs to her chest. She rested her hands atop her knees, picking at the fabric. “My sole regret is that I couldn’t have known that their significance endured even while my culture’s credence of them waned. I would not have stood on that shore otherwise.”

“Do people of your time not tell stories then?” Ragnar asked, speaking for the first time in many hours. He looked dubious, as if he was ready to argue her statements by using what he learned about her journal against her. Molly recognized it also as an admission. Despite his first hint of skepticism ere she began, and despite the natural aversion of Man’s to being fooled by seemingly impossible phenomenons, Molly had opened herself to him in a way that exposed her heart, showing him something precious and protected by unraveling her fabricated life.

Also – he had listened.

“For we have many that do much to warn the little ones away from danger,” he continued. “Maybe you did not listen as a child,” he said, pointing a finger at her nose in a playful, tsking manner. She resisted the urge to reach over and swat his hand back to his lap.

“ _Your_ people then have precautionary tales of traveling through time?” she said instead, partially rhetorical as she didn’t believe that the Norse did; though, also a little curious in case of the possibility.

Ragnar let his hand drop, adopting a rueful smile as he eyed her from under his brows. His quirked mouth turned thoughtful, however, and he gazed at her straight-on. She saw him only by the faint, ruddy glow of the now dwindled fire; more ember and ash then flame.

“You truly are from another time?” he asked quietly, almost marveling. His eyes were the only point of light on his face; two pricks of focus that somehow carried more expression than a torrent of voiced wonder.

“I am,” she answered simply. She wondered if he saw the same in her; two points of light staring back at him. The lights were disturbed when he blinked, turning his head away, looking forward as he had at the beginning. She could almost hear the wheels turning in his mind, the formulating questions, and the now deepened curiosity that she must undeniably hold.

“Well,” he said with a grunt, adjusting his position so that he sat straighter against the wall. He returned his gaze to hers. “I suppose I must concede to your claim – you _have_ traveled farther than me.”

“Yes,” she chuckled, “my adventurous desire of walking in the rain in a foreign country has inadvertently seen me outpace the ambitions of any Northman seeking new land.”

Molly only just caught his smile as he leaned forward, taking up one of the sticks to jab at the fire. A ripple of warmth spread suddenly, tempering the chill air of the night and reminding her that she was hugging herself tightly in defense against the cold.

“Have you ever tried to return?” Ragnar asked, keeping his eyes on his work.

“Once,” she replied after a pause. “A week after arriving in that town you and your men had sacked,” she interrupted herself in order to deliver a long-in-the-making glare. The Viking at least had sense enough to remain quiet. “I found my way back to that beach. I stayed out there until I couldn’t bear the hunger any longer. I don’t remember how many days, but nothing happened. The road that had vanished didn’t reappear, and when I returned to the village I found it immediately. It hadn’t worked.” Molly often wondered if it would if she could reach it on the anniversary date of her arrival. But as of yet, she’d never been able to make it.

“It sounds temperamental,” he remarked, uselessly twiddling the stick between his palms, working a hole through the fire.

“Extremely temperamental!” she heartily agreed. “At least with you – well, you are very consistent; I always know what to expect from you.”

“Do you think it is so? That you will always know what to expect from me,” he stopped his fiddling to stare up at her, a queer look in his eye. Molly visibly swallowed as she held herself tighter. She felt the mood turn in an instant; dangerous and intimidating.

“You said you wouldn’t force me,” she reminded him, doing her best to keep her voice steady. The knife he had given her was still somewhere near her.

“Aye, I did,” he nodded, resuming his work, and the tension lifted somewhat, “and if that is where your mind has gone it has done so on its own for I have made no mention of lying with you. I would not speak against such a proposition, but I have not suggested it,” he said, flicking his eyes up to hers once more. She felt her heart stutter.

“Then what was all that about with your, ‘do you think you’ll always know what to expect from me?’” she questioned, altering her voice to imitate his low timber.

Ragnar tossed the stick aside and rubbed his palms together, brushing away the soot and ash. His movements were leisurely, almost deliberately so, which only annoyed Molly further when she was already feeling embarrassed by his presumption that her mind had been in the gutters.

“ _Well?_ ” she pressed.

Ragnar shrugged, incorporating his hands as well as his face in the movement. “Is it not the truth? Who can claim that they know another so completely that they will always know what the other will do? As, uh, _sweet_ as our meetings have been,” he smiled at her scowl, “they have been brief. Do you really think you know me as well as you think you do?”

She opened her mouth to give a remark about first impressions or something of that nature, when she hesitated. Her own first impressions were swiftly being supplanted by more amenable notions of her . . . not friend . . . companion. Her posture loosened slightly and, guilelessly, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear unaware of the way it drew his eye.

“I feel I must know you enough to trust you with the truth,” she admitted. “You’re the first person to know . . . any of this,” she said, initially searching for a word that could encompass her facts of life. “I don’t understand it, but you’re the first person that I felt I could share it with; no one else would’ve have understood, but you, somehow, seem to.” She quirked her brows, appreciatively curios.

Through the gloom and dull, red glow a gleam of benign teeth glinted as he smiled at her. “I always knew you were something more than you appeared,” he said, sounding vindicated. “I _knew_ there was a reason for my safe-guarding your book – for you to be present in my mind, even when time continued and the possibility of ever finding you diminished; you never left me.”

Molly looked away, running her hands up her arms to hug her shoulders. She did not care to admit that she had experienced the same magnetizing thoughts towards him, though far less complimentary. Though, she supposed it was natural to have looked back on him; their first encounter was one of the most frightening moments of her life.

Cautiously, she turned back to him and was immediately confronted with the urge to yawn as she saw him indulging in his own. He did not miss her joining him.

“The hour is late,” he relented, sounding almost bitter by the fact. “You should get some sleep,” he advised her. Night had been with them for many hours, yet they seemed only now to be aware of the time.

“What about you? You have not slept since waking this morning.”

“I may shut my eyes, but don’t concern yourself. I am used to this more than you. Besides, you will need the rest for tomorrow; I have a number of questions I would ask you.”

“And I will do my best to answer them, but at present, you are the one with an injury and I am not. I’ll watch for now. I do not mind,” she added when she saw him preparing to counter. She reasoned that the likelihood of either of them finding much sleep was slim, but the few hours remaining to the night promised quiet introspection which she yearned for ere the next round of revelations began.

Molly stood, intent on switching places with Ragnar, and showing no signs of hesitance in taking his hands to help him up as she had originally. Again he stumbled, but only slightly, regaining his balance in the next second. She released her grip on him, though when he moved to step past her, she automatically brought a hand up to stop him, just grazing his chest before she dropped it again.

“I – uh, I just want to thank you,” with an effort, she managed to bring her eyes up to his, meeting them and reading in them a softness she had not thought him capable of achieving. She swallowed, suddenly very aware that her last vestiges of fear were leaving her as a new, even more frightening, emotion took its place. He was not touching her, as he promised he would not, but his gaze may as well have been a caress for the warmth she felt under its gaze. She cleared her throat. “You listened to me when I know no one else would have. You can’t know what that means to me,” she confessed. “You returned to me a part of myself I’d forgotten about and I must thank you for that.”

In response, Ragnar leaned down, bringing his face level with hers, their noses inches apart. Molly thought for a moment that he _would_ break his word, yet she found herself too curious to back away.

“Does this mean I’m forgiven?” he posed to her instead.

Molly broke out into a wide grin, her teeth now the ones to gleam as she shook her head in amusement.

“Yes Ragnar Lothbrok, I suppose this means I must forgive you now – so long as you don’t try it again,” she added.

“Mmm,” he playfully groused, “that is a cruel thing to hold me to when you have made yourself even more valuable to me. You had better not smile too much,” he warned, “for I am want to lose all reason and do what I please should I see your smiling face near a boat.”

“You would have to tie me to the masthead for we both know I can swim,” she teased back.

“Don’t give me ideas. Where are you going?” he suddenly called when she abruptly turned to leave their cave.

“I thought I would search for the fairies and see if _they_ know how I could return home.” At his arch brow she chuckled and told him truthfully that she had to relieve herself. When she returned, he was still standing, waiting. Without a word he limped past her and was swallowed by the night, likely to take care of a similar errand.

When he returned, she was already sitting, holding her legs close so that he could get by with as little difficulty as possible. From the darkened corners of the rear of the cave Molly heard his grunts, scuffles, and ultimate sighs as he lowered himself to the ground.

“Are you alright?” she felt compelled to ask.

“Fine,” he said, unconcerned.

A moment passed.

“Do you have songs from your time?” Ragnar’s voice came out from the gloom, contemplative, yet accommodating of a certain mischievous quality.

“I’m not going to sing one,” she replied immediately, not even bothering to look at him. She could, however, see his head perk up out of the corner of her eye.

“I did not ask you to,” a smile in his tone.

“You didn’t have to; I knew what you were leading to.”

“But you do have songs?” he urged, not giving up altogether.

“Of course we have songs,” she smiled at the ridiculousness. “A great many songs that would likely make you wish you were deaf. Music has evolved since the folk tune,” she told him wryly.

“You are not fond of music then?”

“On the contrary, I love music; in fact I used to love watching classic musicals with my mother. My father hated them!” she smiled, remembering. “He would walk in the room, hear Gene Kelly or Fred Astaire for a second, and make an about face. I think the only musical we ever managed to get him to sit down to was My Fair Lady. He knew Rex Harrison was in it and thought it would be a ‘decent’ movie as he termed it. He didn’t even get to ‘Wouldn’t it be Loverly’.”

Lost in her own memories once again, and not to mention the shadows that now enveloped Ragnar, Molly missed his puzzled expression. “You excel at saying much while revealing little.”

Molly laughed softly, understanding his plight. “My apologies, but it is difficult to translate something that hasn’t been invented yet.”

“I imagine it would be,” he considered, then added, “I envy you your knowledge; to know what will come after once all this is gone; once we here have all played our parts and are done.”

A brief silence stretched between them. In the distance, an owl screeched.

“Don’t envy me, Ragnar,” Molly quietly said at last. “You have the comfort of your time, even if you don’t appreciate it, while I often am adrift with only the cold comfort of memory to sooth me. My fate is not something to yearn for.”

Another, shorter, silence ensued, concluded this time by Ragnar.

“I will do my best to heed your warning Molly Hatch,” he said, a curious note to his voice. An unspoken sentiment hung in the air, trailing from Ragnar’s words, and without meaning to Molly waited for its release. It came as sigh of the wind, soft and coaxing. “But it would be easier if you were to stay with me,” he whispered.

Molly looked over her shoulder, seeking his gaze, but not even those pinpricks could be seen now in the gloom. Looking forward, Molly rubbed her arms.

“Sleep Ragnar, I will watch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had this chapter finished by Monday, edited and everything, was just about to post it when I realized I really wasn't 100% satisfied. Initially I was going to start from scratch and make it from Ragnar's POV, but changed my mind when I realized it really needs Molly's thought process for this one. The bulk of it is the same, but I added depth where it needed it and took away portions that made it lag a bit. This was a really difficult chapter to write in terms of tone. I wasn't sure at first at what angle I wanted to tackle this and had four or five drafts that went no further than a few paragraphs in. I'm glad that this one is finally done - whenever I have to write a reveal for a character I dread it. They're such important moments and can be daunting to translate on the page. I hope you all enjoyed this one and please let me know if you did. Let me know if you didn't too!
> 
> There is one scene that didn't make the cut, but I was too in love with it to discard it altogether so it's a deleted scene. It was going to conclude the chapter, but the ending that I went with felt a more natural end, while this deleted scene was more just 'in-between' fluff that wouldn't fit in the beginning of the next chapter either. You can find it on my tumblr the-fox-knows. All updates and postings, and I suppose any more scenes that pop into my head but won't fit with the main story, can be found there. I do recommend checking it out as it'll be mentioned in the next chapter - nothing major, but you'll know what they're talking about.
> 
> Be well!


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